


Pirate

by thebrighteststar10



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Emotional Infidelity, Eventual Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, M/M, No Eurus Holmes, Sherlock is seventeen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-18
Updated: 2020-08-24
Packaged: 2021-03-04 23:27:42
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 22,576
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25334641
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thebrighteststar10/pseuds/thebrighteststar10
Summary: It was Saturday morning when Sherlock came tumbling down the stairs, his curls everywhere and dressing gown haphazardly draped over his torso, that he found one John Watson standing near the kitchen counter. Rugby captain, med student, and... Mycroft's boyfriend.Oh, and how cruel the universe could be.
Relationships: Mycroft Holmes/John Watson, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 20
Kudos: 80





	1. Chapter 1

Musgrave was quiet, almost always, but especially on Saturday mornings. On Saturday morning, the house was mostly empty save Sherlock, because mummy and father went shopping on their car and Mrs. Hudson did not come in until noon. The sound of birds chirping and wind swooshing through trees filled the house, compensating the typical chilliness of countryside mornings. Serene.

Sherlock tumbled down the stairs. He was going straight for tea. As he adjusted his skewed dressing gown over his pjs, however, he could hear a muffled clinking sound coming from the kitchen. Sherlock stopped on his feet, swiftly turned on his senses, however sleepy they were, and concentrated on the sound:

 _clink, clink_ \- sound of china, probably the small kettle; _rhythm_ \- not Mrs. Hudson, not mummy or father, definitely not Mycroft nor Sherrinford.

Conclusion: there was a stranger in his house. On Saturday morning. At Musgrave.

He narrowed his eyes. A poker on his left. _(Can inflict serious harm, but needs precision.)_ A vase on the table near the stairs. _(A possibility of damaging his own hand. Severely. Pass.)_ A deer-shaped ornament made out of marble, stored inside a display cupboard on his right. _(Can be used to simply threaten the stranger off the premises. Can be thrown from a distance. It's hollow inside, which means it won't be too hard to throw yet heavy enough to do some damage. Best choice so far. Mummy will be upset if it gets broken. Too bad.)_

Sherlock took the ornament out with his right hand, making sure that he didn't make a sound. The stranger in the kitchen was still rattling muffled noise. Slowly, stealthily, he approached the kitchen.

The number one rule for combat was to do everything before the other expected it. Sherlock stood near the kitchen entrance, making sure that he hid in the shadows and was not being seen. He never had a full-on combat before, but he didn't need a first-hand experience to excel at something. He wasn't an idiot. If one calculates every single thing perfectly inside one's mind, one doesn't need _experience_.

Footsteps. The stranger was approaching where Sherlock was standing.

Sherlock counted internally. Ten, nine, eight-

At one stroke, he would step into the light, face the stranger, and take the stranger's throat in his left hand and shove the deer into the stomach with his right. He'll have to do all of it in a single, fluid motion. Throat and shove. Throat and shove. It was hardly anything difficult. The stranger didn't even know there was someone in the shadows, waiting for them. Sherlock had the upper hand. The sound of his own heart beat loudly in Sherlock's ear. Thump, thump, thump, thump.

Seven, six, five, four, three, two-

One.

He stepped into the light, and at the face of a surprised-looking blond young man, he took his throat and then-

The stranger _(short, compact, muscular, early twenties, blond with blue eyes, plays sports-football? no, rugby, has tea with milk, possibly a med student)_ , within what felt like a millisecond, hit on Sherlock's wrist, hard, making him drop the deer instantly in pain, and ducked so that Sherlock's left hand on his throat would grab nothing but air. The sound of marble crashing into the granite floor wrung deeply between the two. Sherlock was then pushed against the fridge, the stranger's body pushing him with all his weight, and his arms were firmly grasped by the elbow, preventing him from using his lower arm and hands in any way.

All of it happened within a blink of his eye. Sherlock's mind whirled, assessing the situation ( _who was this man? This was no burglar. But it didn't make sense otherwise._ ) and he relaxed his body, realizing that he was in no imminent danger. This stranger was clearly not a threat. He was, indeed, a brilliant combatant, but by no means a criminal.

Sherlock cleared his throat. The blond mystery man's face was less than fifteen centimeters away from Sherlock's. He could see confusion written all over the fine-haired brows and cerulean blue eyes. _(No sign of aggression. So all of it was just subconscious bodily reaction, then. Interesting.)_ He was watching Sherlock intently, wary, confused, and slightly excited.

"Greetings," coughed Sherlock. It came out a bit rough. He blamed the time. It was eight thirty in the morning.

"Who are you?"

_(Not a strong accent, possibly a Londoner, but Scottish, maybe.)_

"That's what I should ask _you_. Who are you and what are you doing here?"

The blond furrowed his brows. "Well, I'm-"

Sherlock shook his head. "No, stop. I'll deduce it. You're in your early twenties, and you study anatomy, possibly a med student, or a veterinary school, but I think medical school is more likely. You like tea with milk. You just drunk tea with milk here, in our kitchen. Left handed. You play rugby, and you play it well. You are very quick on your feet, especially with your body, but it doesn't seem like you learned it from training. You learned it through experience. It's not likely that someone like you had to go through heavy bullying, though. So it must be something else. Abusive father? A-hah. Now, what is a young, sporty medical student with an abusive father doing in my kitchen on a Saturday morning, helping themselves with tea?"

"What- how- why-" The stranger stammered.

Sherlock rolled his eyes, ignoring the expected shock almost everyone had whenever they first encountered Sherlock's deductions.

"We rarely have guests over, and whenever we do, we receive notice beforehand. Mummy and father hate unannounced guests and so they make sure of it. They most certainly haven't been expecting someone like you. You weren't breaking in, however. You were having tea, of all things. Hardly the behavior of a break-in. Mycroft and Sherrinford never, and I mean _never_ , bring anyone over, but now it seems like that is almost the only available option left. It still baffles me why they would bring a guest, let alone why they are here and not in London, when it's nothing close to their summer holidays. But then again, the British government does not always work on schedule."

Sherlock could feel the grip on his arms loosen. He didn't step away, however. Not yet. 

Mystery man blinked. Sherlock watched his eyelashes, fair and blond and long, reflect the sunlight as he did.

"I- maybe I'm a neighbour who just moved in next door and wanted to say hi?" 

Sherlock scoffed. "As if we have neighbours."

"Right. Right. Of course. Well- yeah. You- I don't know how you got most of it right, but I guess I shouldn't be surprised."

"Because you are indeed my brother's guest?" Sherlock questioned, raising a brow.

"Yes, and I know what a Holmes can do. But I've never heard Mycroft listing all of his observations at once before, so it's still impressive."

Mycroft.

It's more likely Mycroft than Sherrinford to be engaging with someone young.

Suddenly, the proximity felt too much. Sherlock wriggled himself out from the now fully loosened grip, and the man let him do so. He went over to the counter where the kettle was sitting. Taylor's Yorkshire Gold. Not bad. Sherlock opened the cupboard above for honey. He could feel the man's gaze behind him.

"Deductions, not observations," said Sherlock, without turning around.

"Huh?"

"What I just said about you. They are deductions. Observations are the step prior to them."

"Oh. Right."

Sherlock poured himself a cup, put two spoonfuls of honey, and turned around. He leaned against the counter and took the cup near to his lips. He always indulged in the smell before he drank his tea, and today was no exception.

The stranger was now awkwardly standing near the fridge. He was fidgeting with his hands near his jeans.

"Listen, I-"

Sherlock cut him off. "What do you mean I got most of it right? Did I get something wrong?"

It took the man a couple of blinks and seconds before he understood what Sherlock was talking about. He gave Sherlock a sheepish smile. "Well, not wrong, technically. You just missed something. I..."

"Well?" Sherlock prompted, looking up at him under his furrowed brows.

The man tilted his head, probably hesitating a bit, before opened his mouth again. "Ah well. Fuck it. I never got bullied, no, but my sister did. She's gay, and she got a whole lot for being one. I'm not someone who can just ignore those looks and name-callings and all that. I have a temper."

Oh. "A sister," said Sherlock. "So you learned how to fight while you fought for her."

"Pretty much. That and my dad, too."

Sherlock pursed his lips, nodding. "There's always something. Real life's never so neat. Too many loose threads, too many possibilities."

Sherlock didn't expect the mystery man to understand what he was talking about, but he certainly didn't expect what the man did right after: he was laughing. Giggling. Shaking-his-head and looking-up-at-the-ceiling kind of giggling.

It sounded ridiculous.

Sherlock found himself giggling slightly after him.

"Oh, God," said the blond, as his laughter subsided. "What- What just happened? You- is that a deer?" He pointed at the ornament on the floor. Fortunately, it wasn't broken.

"Well, yes," answered Sherlock, gesturing to it absentmindedly. "Mummy's choice. Don't understand it."

"You attacked me with a deer," said the man. "A _deer_." Amused look was apparent in his friendly face. "A deer when there's like a thousand knives lying about in this house."

"If that's what concerns you the most, I believe you have a problem."

"Oh, piss off." The stranger grinned, meeting Sherlock's eyes. Sherlock grinned back. "Mycroft told me about you, but he never mentioned the scrummage bit."

Scrummage. Unsurprising word choice for a rugby player. And a surprisingly accurate description of what just happened.

"I suppose he always tells the worst of me," said Sherlock.

"Hmm. Not really."

Sherlock lock his gaze into the other's, breaking it off seconds later. He glanced downwards. He realized that he still didn't know the man's name.

"I have to say, Mycroft never spoke of you," started Sherlock, looking back up. The man was watching him with amused eyes.

A strange sense of fondness swept through Sherlock's gut as he watched the blue eyes crinkle with a smile.

"I'm not surprised. He's a private man, isn't he?"

Sherlock shrugged. Mycroft apparently wasn't _that_ private, if he suddenly decided to bring a stranger to their childhood home unannounced.

"Well," the blond continued. "I'm, er. I don't know if I can tell you."

"Intelligence agent? Witness protection?"

He shook his head. "Nah. Best leave it here, though. You can ask him later. He'll tell you if he feels comfortable about it."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. If Mycroft feels comfortable about it? If it pertained to his work at the government, it wouldn't be a matter for Mycroft to feel comfortable about or not, because it's not about his comfort, but rather about the matter's confidentiality itself. It didn't make sense that someone so young and so obviously a student to be involved in high-risk, confidential government affair as well. The only possible option left was that this had to do with Mycroft's personal life.

But what personal life? Mycroft doesn't have one.

"I see you've already met Sherlock." Mycroft's voice came from the doorsill. 

"Mycroft!" The blond shouted from where he stood.

"John. Apologies I took so long."

"No, no," said John. It was John, then. Sherlock watched John strode towards his brother.

"Ready to go?" Sherlock could hear Mycroft asking John in a soft voice.

John nodded. The back of his blond head glistened under the sunlight that seeped through the kitchen window.

Mycroft glanced once at Sherlock, his face unimpressed, and then walked away without saying anything else. Sherlock hadn't expected anything else.

John looked like he was about to follow. Instead, he stopped and flashed a glance back.

"John Watson, if you were wondering. I'll see you, maybe."

Sherlock nodded, lifting his teacup in the air as a scrambled attempt at a toast. "Maybe."

John smirked, turned around, and left.

Sherlock stood there for a few minutes, looking at the empty doorway. He then heard the sound of a car engine starting in the distance. Mycroft must be leaving, now. He hurriedly moved to the window at the back of the kitchen, from where he could see the front gates. He could see Mycroft's black Rolls-Royce Phantom rolling off smoothly like its name.

John Watson. Sherlock watched the car disappear with his cup of tea going cold in his hand.

* * *

That evening, Sherlock's parents insisted that Sherlock join them at the dinner table, as per usual. Mrs. Hudson was making boeuf bourguignon, one of Sherlock's least favourite _(why did people ever feel the need to marinate meat in alcohol? It takes away its resistance all too much and makes it taste like nothing but cardboard)_ , and mummy was giddy with the news she'd collected from her morning shopping. If that wasn't enough, father has just put his brown notebook on the sitting room table, which meant only one thing: he wanted to talk about university with Sherlock over dinner. Everything was practically putting Sherlock off, and all he wanted to do was to shut himself up in his room and go back to his experiment.

But he couldn't disobey mummy when she called his name with that tone. 

He sat, with his legs gathered in front of him and feet on his chair. He put his chin on top of his knees. He knew his whole body screamed 'sulking,' and he didn't care.

"Sherlock," said mum, in a stern voice. "Take your feet off the chair and eat your soup."

"I'll eat the boeuf once it's ready," answered Sherlock, still keeping his feet where they were.

Her lips made a straight line, but it seemed like she decided to let it pass. She picked up from where she left before. "...Ashton... daughter, did you see her, Siger? She's all grown up. Like our little Sherlock."

Useless, banal chatter. Sherlock sighed. Oh, the cross he had to bear.

Mrs. Hudson brought over the blasted dish. "Why, this looks delicious! And the smell, too," said mum. "Thank you, Martha. You should join us, if you are not too busy."

"I'd love to, but I have stuff to take care of back home," said Mrs. Hudson. "I'll be back in a tick. Oh, and Sherlock, dearie, do try to eat a bit."

Sherlock rolled his eyes, mummy raised voices of agreement, and father smiled at Mrs. Hudson. Everyone was worrying over him. It was horrible.

Mrs. Hudson left, leaving the three of them in the spacious dining room. Sherlock poked at the burgundy mush in front of him. Mush. Soft and melts instantly once chewed. Coq au vin suffered from a similar problem of being mushy. Sherlock preferred Italian. Or Thai, or Indian, though he rarely had the chance to try them. Something that is stronger with spice, something that has a bit more texture. Sherlock knew that the gastronomes around the world would faint at what he thought of French cuisine. Food was never his area of expertise, so he couldn't care less.

He could see the blood specimen he'd left upstairs in his room for his experiment, over the deep purple wine-mixed gravy spilt on his plate. Blood, now, _that_ was his area. He was mindlessly thinking about the types of coagulation he wanted to try next, when father knocked on the table for his attention.

"Sherlock?"

Sherlock glanced up, startled. His father was watching him expectantly. 

"Sherlock," said father. "Have you decided?"

Decided. Sherlock knew what he was talking about. How could he not? The brown clipbook in the sitting room said it all. University.

"I wish to read Chemistry," said Sherlock. "And I'm thinking Cambridge."

"Lovely!" Mummy exclaimed. "Though, not Oxford? Mycroft can surely do something if you decide to follow his steps there."

"I won't. Not ever." Sherlock gritted through his teeth.

"Well, that's all right," said father. "We don't need another politician in this house. What kind of career do you see for yourself?"

Sherlock so badly wanted to scream his frustrations out loud. Although he didn't _hate_ his parents, he really didn't want to explain everything only to invite more questions from them. And it's not like they ever understood his answers. He poked at the mushy carrot instead of snapping. He will endure this, and it will pass, and he will soon go back to his blood samples.

"A pirate."

"Sherlock Holmes, be serious, now. You're not eight years old." Mummy scolded.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. "Pirates are a perfectly viable career choice, mother. It is a common mistake to believe that all ocean surfaces are under the control of the government. It is not, I assure you."

Mummy scoffed. "You sure will be walking the plank with that mouth."

"Violet." Father took his mother's shoulder in his hand.

"It's fine. You wishing to go to Cambridge is enough of an answer. You can decide whatever you want to do as you study."

Sherlock grumbled an assent.

The dining table went back to mindless chatter between the married couple. Sherlock picked at his food, tried some of it when mummy pleaded him to, and passed his time. It seemed like the conversation he dreaded the most this evening has passed without much problem. His parents were always keen on the education and stable occupations of their children, and were thrilled when they found out the two elder sons were taking high positions in the British government. Sherlock was the oddball of the family: he didn't have good grades because he never cared for them, he wasn't interested in something stable like the government _(the government, Sherlock sneered, could that sound anymore dull?)_ , and he was just overall, utterly and undoubtedly, uninterested in anything that would secure a bright future ahead of himself. The other two Holmes brothers thought differently. 

First Class marks. Numerous awards. Socially respectable jobs with high salary. Oh, Sherlock couldn't be more bored.

He was grateful that the conversation ended with just that. He told them Cambridge in order to appease them, and it worked. He was indeed intending to go to Cambridge, mostly because they had the best Chemistry resources. His report card wasn't fantastic because he never cared, but his official test scores were off the roof. It wouldn't be difficult, he knew.

All the labs he could get access to - It excited him.

He was deep in his musings about the kinds of expensive equipment Cambridge must have in store, leaving his parents chatter on about banal, useless ordinary chitchat. He was barely listening when a phrase caught his ear.

"...Mycroft in a relationship..."

Sherlock snapped out of his reverie.

"...and I wanted to see the young man's picture, at least, and he was terribly embarrassed. It was so good to see that, Siger. Our boys are finally growing up! I wonder if Sherry's seeing someone, too."

His father chuckled. "I don't think so. You know how he's like. We can always set him up. Didn't you say Martin's youngest just came back from Turkey?"

"Oh, Paul. Paul can be good. He's maybe a bit too young for him, though."

Sherlock snipped. "Mycroft is seeing someone?"

Her mother widened her eyes, surprised that Sherlock was showing interest. "Why, yes. We didn't think you'd care, dear."

"Who is he seeing?"

Father shrugged. "We don't know. We don't even know his name." 

"But we do know that he's quite wonderful," said mummy, her eyes glistening. "He's kept Mycroft busy for more than two months, and that is a first."

Something cold sat inside Sherlock's stomach. _Someone that had to do with Mycroft's personal life_ , he'd deduced, earlier in the kitchen.

"Do you know anything about him?" Unwittingly, his voice came out cross. His mother didn't comment on it if she noticed. She watched Sherlock curiously.

"Not really, son," said father. "Well- he said something about him being more of an active type than Mycroft. We think maybe the lad plays sport of some kind."

"Mm. And that he's sweet," added mum.

"Yes, that, too."

Sherlock chewed on his lower lip nervously.

"What is it, dear?" Mummy asked.

"Nothing."

"I know your brother seeing someone is quite out of the ordinary. I know. I thought you wouldn't care much, but-"

Useless, useless, useless.

"Does he study medicine?"

"Medicine? We don't know. Oh, wait a minute. Didn't Mycroft say something about picking him up at Barts?"

"Yes, we overheard him talking to the phone, I remember." Father replied.

Sherlock has heard enough. He tore his glance away, signaling that he's done with their talk. His parents regarded him for a while before going back to their chat, and they looked over at him more frequently than before. Sherlock ignored them all. Everything suddenly became so much more tasteless than it was already before. He mechanically chewed the potato cubes as he stared blankly at the pattern on the table. He could almost feel the body weight, the heat, and the friendly yet alert eyes of the stranger from that very morning. Not a stranger, apparently. John Watson, doing the impossible job of dating Mycroft Holmes.

Thinking of the burgundy gravy as blood wasn't enough to sate him anymore. He viciously stabbed the carrot, instead.


	2. Chapter 2

John was having the worst day ever.

He had 9 a.m. class, first of all, which was bad in itself, but he could endure it. Mike took it with him and they always watched out for each other in case one of them were late and needed notes. This time, it was Mike who overslept, and John gave him his notes with a good-natured slap on his back. It didn't mean that John wasn't tired, though. After the 9 a.m. Chemistry lecture, John had practice sessions with one of the OBGYN professors, and boy, did he see some stuff. Although he was bisexual and he was sure of it, he felt like he'd just stick with men after one of those classes. But all of that wasn't too big of a deal in the daily life of a med student.

What really bummed him out was when a stranger knocked the coffee cup out of his hand and effectively ruined the good shirt he'd put on. It was some partied-out student wandering around who didn't even apologize, and John was too busy making sure he wasn't burned that he couldn't go after the drunk with a demand for his laundry bills. When he finally made sure that the only damage done was to his brand-new button down, the stranger was long gone, leaving only heaps of exhausted, undistinguishable students in John's sight.

He didn't have time to change, however, so he had to power through. He had his next class in two hours, and he could be expecting a short exam of some sort so he had to study at the library. While he was there, he had a text from his coach, who was letting him know that the practice was cancelled that evening. John sighed, because after all of the disturbing sessions and coffee-spilling of the day, he could really use some exercise to get it out of his system. Accepting his fate, he obediently turned his attention back to his textbook.

Then there was the exam. Oh, the exam. It was impossible. John's two-hour studying at the library did almost nothing. The only consolation was Molly venting with him after class, about how unfair the professor was with that exam - he never really talked much with her before, and now he felt like he'd made a friend.

But it didn't clear off the cloud that seemingly decided to hang around and ruin John's day, and literally so, because as John walked out of his building with no umbrella and all of his heavy textbooks in his arms, rain started pouring as if someone accidentally tore a hole in the sky.

England was famous for its feeble rain, except for days like this when it decides that a fucking squall was acceptable in central London.

This is officially the worst day in his life, thought John to himself. Maybe it was childish to say that, maybe there were worse thing that has happened to him in his life, but fuck rationality. John was soaked from head to toe with coffee on his new shirt and his ridiculously expensive textbooks were now slowly turning into a wet piece of rag. He hurriedly ran towards a near building to avoid the rain. As he stood near the entrance with some other students who gaped at the heavy rain together with him, he wondered what he should do. He pondered calling someone. Mike? Irene? Molly? Bill? He thought of calling Mycroft, maybe.

He's been dating Mycroft for more than three months now. Well, as long as someone can call occasional dinners and sex "dating." He really didn't know much about Mycroft's life, and if he will be willing to pick John up in the middle of the day. He knew that Mycroft was rich, and that he was working for the government, but that was pretty much it. Over dinner, Mycroft always wanted to talk about John and not himself, and John obliged, because he didn't mind. He didn't mind that they were casual, and that Mycroft kept his distance between them. John didn't have time for something more serious, anyways.

He decided to call Mike eventually. The signal went on, and it went to voicemail. Of course. John huffed in frustration and called Irene. He was instantly greeted with a sensual voice of "I'm busy. I'll call you if you're worth it," which was the voice she'd recorded for her answering machine. John punched Molly's number. She answered, but said that she was stuck in her lab with a bunch of eyeballs.

John was about to try Bill.

"You look different." A deep voice said, right next to his ear.

It was Sherlock Holmes, Mycroft's younger brother.

John, startled, fumbled with his phone and almost dropped it. Sherlock caught it swiftly. He then proceeded to examine it.

"Hmm. Your sister has alcohol problems, I see."

"What- How- Why-"

"I wonder if that's what you're going to say every time I see you."

John blinked several times, shut his mouth that he hadn't realized that was gaping wide until then, and then asked: "Okay. How? How could you _possibly_ know about the drinking?"

Sherlock smirked. "It's starting to become clear to me that you don't ask the most pressing questions in unexpected situations. I supposed that you'd be curious why I'm here."

"Well, that too, of course- don't make that face, you git. Now answer the question."

"Which one?"

"Both of them!"

Sherlock shrugged. "Shot in the dark, really. Your phone, it's expensive, and it has engravings on the back that says Harry Watson. It's not difficult to deduce that this is your gay sister that you'd told me the last time we had... an _encounter_. You are frugal, no, I don't mean it as an insult, and so you wouldn't spend this much on something like a phone, and if you did, you'd treat it like you treat your watch. That watch, it's an old model, it's not expensive, and yet it's pristine without a hint of its age. You obviously take care with your stuff, you are careful with them, and this phone has scrapings and scratches all over its charging port. Never seen a sober man with those marks, never seen an alcoholic without them. They fumble with their chargers in the dark, and they leave marks because they are almost always drunk."

All of that was spoken rapidly and nonchalantly, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. It left John in a awe, and he had to actively tore his gaze away from the teenager's face not to come off as creepy. He said, eventually, after a beat:

"That, was, amazing."

"... Do you think so?"

"Yes. Extraordinary. Quite extraordinary."

Sherlock didn't answer. John faced him again, and he could see the tall boy looking downwards and blushing at the tip of his ears. It was adorable. That was almost the only thing that reminded John that the boy standing in front of him was indeed years younger than him, because with all that deep voice and the height and the posh clothes that he was wearing, he could fool anyone that he was a student here at Barts.

"The thing that you did back at your home," John started, remembering that day. He couldn't believe that it has already been more than a week. It felt like yesterday, seeing Sherlock right in front of him. "The... um, 'deductions,' you called it? Right. Those. They were impressive, too. But I guess I thought Harry's drinking was something that _nobody_ would know, not really, unless I tell them, which will be never. She doesn't show it. Never. The only people who know it in the world are her girlfriend, herself, and I. My mum don't have a clue and she sees Harry almost every day. And you just... you just figured it out by just taking one look at my phone."

Sherlock glanced up, meeting John's eyes. "I wouldn't say _one look_. I had to flip it over."

John snorted. "Don't try modest. I don't know you well, but I don't reckon it suits you."

"I've been told that I need to try nonetheless."

John tittered, and heard Sherlock following him. The low rumble of it was almost melodic.

John thought it wasn't fair for someone so young to sound like that.

"Okay, then. Why are you here?" John asked, finally. He then noticed that Sherlock wasn't wet. His curls were, although the air was slightly humid, perfectly calm. John then also saw that Sherlock has been holding a big umbrella in his right hand, which had created a small puddle underneath.

"I've ran away."

John's face fell. "Seriously?"

Sherlock watched it with amusement. "No."

"Git," said John, visibly relaxing. "What is it?"

Sherlock pursed his lips. "Let's just say I wanted to see the city."

He locked his gaze into John's, and John spent a moment pondering what he should do as he gazed back. If he noticed the almost-iridescent colour of Sherlock's eyes, he ignored it.

What should he do, as an adult, if only by a couple of years? Should he call Mycroft and let him know that the youngest Holmes brother was in the middle of London? Should he call the police and let Mr. and Mrs. Holmes know?

"Don't," said Sherlock, emphasizing the 't.' "I am perfectly capable of taking care of myself."

"I don't doubt you can, because apparently you're a genius. But... all right, I won't do anything. So what are you going to do, now?"

Sherlock glimpsed at the pouring rain. "I think I should be asking you that, John. What are you going to do? You obviously have been victimized by the untimely rain. Do you wish to wait until it stops? Calling someone clearly hasn't worked."

John wasn't even going to ask him how he'd known that. Instead, he sighed and admitted defeat. "I don't know. I guess I'll just wait. Maybe one of my mates will see me and rescue me."

Sherlock regarded him with curiosity.

"What?" John asked, suddenly self-conscious of his coffee-stained shirt. He inspected himself. Nothing was too terrible, well, nothing apart from the coffee. And the rain. And his soaking wet, rain-dripping hair. Damn.

For some reason, Sherlock seemed satisfied. "Sure you don't have anyone else to call?"

John shook his head. Bill was probably still in class, after all.

"That settles it, then." Sherlock opened his ridiculously big umbrella, which opened with a 'pop,' and sprinkled raindrops everywhere. "Come along. I'll share with you."

"Really? Are you sure?"

"I hate repeating myself, John." With that, Sherlock stepped outside into the rain.

John rolled his eyes, collected his books and adjusted his backpack before he jumped under Sherlock's umbrella. He was slightly irritated at how taller the younger Holmes was. Life was so unfair. So unfair. Well, Sherlock could at least hold the umbrella.

Sherlock started his way without even asking John where to, and John hurriedly caught up with him, lest he got soaked again.

"Sherlock, where are we going?" He yelled through the deafening sound of the rain.

"Your flat, of course."

"How do you even know where- never mind."

"Do you not wish to know how?"

"Let me guess. Is it written on my forehead?" He shouted.

Sherlock snorted. 

"But seriously. Are you sure you will come with me? You can take me to a bus stop or something."

"Mm. No."

"No, really. I don't mind."

"I said, I hate repeating myself. Do keep up, John. Your flat is less than fifteen minutes by foot and there is no need for a bus. Now stop making insipid suggestions and follow me. You do have to walk faster than me, after all."

John glared at Sherlock's profile, and stopped when he realized that it could hurt his neck if he kept it on. Damn it!

The pouring rain somehow made a bit of a bubble around the two of them. John could feel Sherlock's warmth next to him, and it felt like everything around them was in utter chaos - the unbelievable vigour of the downpour, people running everywhere and cars honking and the bus splashing - while the two of them under the ridiculously huge umbrella were cocooned, safe, and cozy. The rain that somehow found its way to their knees and below only sharpened the contrast of how dry and comfortable he felt on his upper body.

John then remembered that Sherlock hasn't really told him why he was here. Sherlock has told him something about taking a look at the city, or something. Was that true? John wondered. Mycroft never told him exactly how much younger Sherlock was. He'd told John that Sherlock was still living with his parents, and that was about it. Sherlock could be going to uni anytime soon; did Sherlock come to London to have a look at Barts as a candidate? John doubted it. Sherlock didn't look like the medicine type. He looked like he'd do something more exciting. But what did he know? He's seen the boy only twice, now.

John walked along in companionable silence, mindlessly guessing stuff about his rescuer.

He didn't even worry about the young genius taking the right path, and was, therefore, not surprised to see a familiar street appear in front of him some minutes later.

"I think you're a stalker," blurted John.

The rain started to subside, and John didn't have to raise his voice anymore.

"Not the worst thing I've been called."

Sherlock was grinning at him when John looked up.

"It's not news, though. Mycroft was a stalker, too. I guess it's in Holmes blood."

After a beat of silence, Sherlock answered. "I wouldn't say that. Father's nothing like us."

"Isn't he? What about your mum?"

"She wasn't born a Holmes, so your point doesn't stand." 

"Fine. I'll change my point. I think it's in _your_ blood."

"That's acceptable. And true, according to some people."

John glanced back up. "Do you? I mean, occasionally?"

"Of course not, John. I followed someone once only because I thought he might be a murderer."

"A WHAT?"

"A boy in my school suddenly died, and many thought it was an accident, but I was so convinced that he was killed. He was a swimmer, a very skilled one, and one day, he turned up dead in the pool. Many thought it was just drowning. It didn't make sense, because he was a good swimmer, and he very annoyingly reminded everyone of it. Naturally, I noticed that his shoes was missing."

"His shoes."

"Yes. In his locker, there was a full set of outfit of his, but no shoes. I made a scene. The police were a bunch of idiots, and they ignored me when I told the they had to find the shoes. But why would there be everything else except his shoes? There were everything, including the little tiny scraps of paper he'd had unbeknownst to himself after having gum. Then why wouldn't there be his shoes? He wouldn't have just waddled into school that morning, _barefoot_. But would the idiots that call themselves the police listen? No. So I had to make my own investigation, and follow a man who could have a motive to kill the swimmer. Unfortunately, I was noticed, he phoned the police, and I got a restraining order."

John smirked. "That is indeed a definition of a stalker. Following someone, convinced that they've murdered someone."

"Then I am one, unashamedly."

"The boy, though. It does sound suspicious."

Sherlock stopped, effectively stopping John too. Sherlock had his whole body turned towards John, he noticed.

"It does, doesn't it?" Sherlock asked, excited.

"Yeah, yeah, it does. I mean, they didn't find the shoes anywhere?"

" _Anywhere_."

"Hmm. I suppose you do have a point."

Sherlock made a show of rolling his eyes, but his excited face betrayed his real emotions. "I _always_ have a point, John. I think it's time you realize that."

"And there goes my comment about modesty not suiting you. I apparently have a knack at judging people."

Sherlock snorted.

He continued walking, and John followed him. His flat was almost there. John wondered if he should ask Sherlock up for tea. He actually quite enjoyed the eccentric boy's company, and wouldn't mind if it continued some more. He had his rugby practice cancelled, anyways, so he had free time. _Unexpected_ free time, which is the excuse he can use for not studying. It was the polite thing to do, too, of course. Sherlock has walked all the way here just for John.

But Sherlock might have some place to go, so maybe not. As the two of them approached the door to his flat's building, John decided to just ask.

"Do you- are you busy?"

Sherlock did not reply. John could see him look surprised. He probably hasn't expected it.

"I mean. You can come up for tea, if you'd like? Our flat's nothing fancy, but you can dry your fancy trousers until the rain stops."

And they arrived right in front of the door. John quickly fished for his key in his pocket, opened it, and stepped inside, leaving the door open and Sherlock still standing outside. The younger man looked hesitant. John smiled. "Yeah?" John asked again. "I really don't mind if you've got someplace to be."

"No," came the answer, hastily. "No, I can't."

"Oh. All right, then." John shrugged. "Too bad. Thank you for walking me home."

Sherlock now looked even more confused. "Mm. My pleasure, or whatever they say."

John had to chuckle at that.

"See you around?" He asked.

Sherlock gazed at him, suddenly looking vulnerable under the big black umbrella.

"Here," said Sherlock, fishing John's phone out of his pocket and handing it to him. It looked rather small in Sherlock's hand.

John gaped as he took it. "Did you have this with you the whole time?"

"You really should hone your observation skills," Sherlock answered, instead, a smirk on his face. "And, you should watch the forecast before leaving. Your rugby coach does."

"What- oh, of course. Of course." His practice was cancelled because the rain was forecasted. Of course Sherlock knows it before he did.

He thought he was used to being outsmarted when he met Mycroft. Apparently, he wasn't.

"See you around, John," said Sherlock.

"Yeah. See you."

With that, and to John's surprise, Sherlock winked. He then abruptly spun around on his heels, his dramatic coat swishing in the air, and started pacing away, fast.

John watched the boy go. It wasn't long until he disappeared into the crowd.

* * *

"-Anyways, you called me earlier, John?" Irene asked as she started the microwave for one minute.

"What? Ah. Right. I didn't have an umbrella and I wondered if you could help me."

John took a forkful of his ravioli.

"Lady and gentleman," Bill started, appearing on the doorstep. "I brought the bulb!" He waved a Tesco bag in the air.

"About time!" Irene yelled over from the kitchen.

The lightbulb right above their sofa has been broken for weeks. It was Bill's fault, and he has been giving the two of them excuses after excuses for not getting a new one. John and Irene could get one by themselves, but the two of them agreed that they shouldn't give in until Bill did. The result was weeks of dingy light in the living room. Irene was the biggest victim of the two, because lord knows that she loves to shag her girlfriend on the sofa. John still hasn't managed to shake the image off his head.

"Forgive me Miss Adler," said Bill, too jovially for Irene's pleasure. "Ooh. Italian today?"

"Mm," John nodded. "Saved yours on the pan. Kate cooked."

"Irene, your girlfriend is a godsend, did I mention that?"

"Don't touch that chair, it's broken, somehow," said John.

"What do you mean it's broken? And yes, you did mention it." Irene frowned.

The microwave beeped.

"One of its legs is about to snap. See there? There's a fracture." John pointed at where it cracked.

"Crap. Chairs don't cost much, do they?" Bill asked, tossing the bag on the sofa.

"I don't think so. But I do know who's responsible for it," said John. "Someone who likes seating furniture for their lovemaking."

"Shut up." Irene snipped, briskly. "You're eating my girlfriend's cooking."

"Fair." John held his hands up in the air as signs of surrender.

"You're paying for the chair," Irene said, glaring at Bill. "You're the reason I had to use the chair in the first place."

Bill shook his head violently. "No, ma'am. It's not my fault you don't use your bed."

"Who uses _beds_ nowadays?" Contempt was apparent in her voice.

John choked, unintentionally.

"Ooh. John does, apparently." Bill teased.

John drank in a hurry.

"He doesn't need a bed," said Irene. "His sugar daddy probably has a lovechair designed only for John."

"Yeah? How do you reckon?"

Bill made himself a seat with the footrest they kept near the sofa.

"He's not my sugar daddy or my sugar anything. He's not that old," John protested, putting his fork down.

Both Bill and Irene ignored him steadfastly.

"How indeed," Irene slightly tilted her head, gazing at John. The bowl of broccoli in her hands were now forgotten.

She now had this look in her eyes that made her look predatory.

John could feel his blush coming all the way from his neck.

"He's petite, our little John. I know for a fact that his daddy is quite taller. Maybe something that has a 'u' shape that fits his little body in the middle?"

John spluttered. "Stop it or I'm leaving you."

Bill laughed.

"Speaking of your man, John. I haven't seen him this week," said Irene, still adopting her sensual voice. John hated it.

"He's busy. He calls me when he's free."

"Mm. And I bet he shags you whenever the mood strikes."

Irene ribbed.

"He'll bend his little sugar baby over his big, expensive desk, and fuck him into oblivion."

John winced. "Irene!"

"Did he ever fuck you in that Rolls-Royce that he always pick you up with? Does he roll up the partition, or show you off to his driver?"

"IRENE! STOP!"

Bill was now roaring with laughter.

John glared at Bill, knowing that it won't have any effect. It didn't. Bill's messy school scarf was dangling along with his laughs and John wanted to tug it and choke him to death.

"I can't believe you," muttered John to Irene. She blew him a kiss, whispered "you know I love you," and went back to her broccoli.

"But seriously. What are you two doing? Are you exclusive, at least?" Bill asked, coming back from his howling.

John sighed, and shrugged. He was glad that the topic was at least something less embarrassing.

"I don't know. We don't talk about that stuff. We meet once or twice a week and have sex. That's it."

"And have expensive dinner," Irene commented.

"And that."

It was that moment when John's phone in his pocket buzzed.

**NSY is a bunch of idiots. SH**

John stared at it and the unknown number. The signing was too familiar, but he wasn't 100% sure.

**Who is this?**

The answer came within seconds.

**Come on, John. You're not that stupid. SH**

"Is that your _daddy_?" Bill drawled.

"Wanting his favourite boy toy at his service?" Irene chimed in.

"Fuck off," John grumbled. He typed back a reply, avoiding the two scrutinizing gazes.

**Sherlock?**

**Yes. SH**

John snorted. The boy must have gotten his number earlier in the rain. Sneaky bastard.

**I don't think I've agreed to giving you my number. And why the hell are you at NSY anyways? Are you in trouble?**

"Irene, why does Kate always use our good milk?" Bill complained.

"It's because she can tell the good ones from the bad."

Buzz. Buzz. Buzz. Three texts came in consecutively. How does Sherlock type that fast was beyond John.

**No, I'm not. SH**

**And agreeing's boring. SH**

**I wanted to see how they handled the crimes of the big city. They are complete and utter idiots. As expected. SH**

"You really should watch the way you eat," said Irene. "The ravioli already stained your jumper. Honestly. How are your screws so loose all the time?"

"It's fine. It's not like I get much action. Unlike _John_." Bill teased. John didn't look up.

"That's no excuse for being straight up squalid."

**Not everyone's a genius like you.**

**As I have noticed. SH**

"John, really. Is that your boyfriend?" Bill asked.

"N- no. It's... er…" John stammered, knowing that saying "it's his brother" might sound a bit weird. "It's someone else."

"Oh, oh my. Is John Watson seeing two people at once?" Irene lowered her voice. "He's _naughty_."

"No, fuck, it's nothing like that. Don't you have better things to do than judge me and my sex life?"

Buzz.

**The recent serial suicides are murder. Not suicides. SH**

"Irene might. I don't." Bill answered as he threw in a tomato inside his mouth.

John hastily finished whatever was left on his plate, washed it, made Bill promise that he will change the lightbulb after eating, made Irene promise that she will replace the chair tomorrow - she said she will accomplish the task, and told John not to question her methods. John didn't want to know more. - and flew to his bedroom. He knew from the buzzing of his phone that Sherlock has texted him quite a few after what he's last checked. He sat down on his bed and checked his phone.

**They have no motives and no resources to have those pills. SH**

**They also have no connections whatsoever. SH**

**Seriously, who commits suicide in shabby buildings and abandoned construction sites? People are more sentimental than that. SH**

And a little bit later, there was one that alarmed John a bit:

**I might have gotten into trouble, after all. SH**

John checked the time for the last message. It was sent only five minutes ago.

John moved his slow fingers as fast as he could.

**You alright?**

Thankfully, the answer came straight away.

**Nevermind. The Detective Inspector knows when he's bested, at least. SH**

John sighed.

**So you're all right, now?**

**Yes, John. SH**

**What is it with the suicides?**

**They are murder. Murder! Serial killer is on the loose in London and nobody even knows about it. SH**

**Nobody except me. SH**

**I've heard about them in the news.**

**Yes. No signs of forced entry, no signs of resistance or violence. Fascinating. SH**

**Do you have any other reason to believe it's murder?**

**Not for now. SH**

**But I will, only if I get to take a look at one of the crime scenes. SH**

**I'm sure you will. But you can't. They don't allow civilians.**

**I will find a way. SH**

**Sherlock, why are you texting me?**

**I can't walk around central London with a skull in my hand. SH**

John took a while to understand what Sherlock meant, and then snorted.

**I'm filling in for your skull?**

**Don't worry. You're doing fine. SH**

**Git.**

**Are you going home for today? Or are you staying in London?**

**I'm taking the 9:30 p.m. train. SH**

**The police will see that they are indeed murders, soon. And they will contact me. I'm sure of it. SH**

**I give it maximum two weeks. SH**

**Do you know how to get home from the train station?**

**Yes, mum. SH**

John chuckled quietly.

**Goodbye, Sherlock.**

The reply came swiftly.

**Goodbye, John. SH**

John was grinning when he put his phone away and started studying.

* * *

Mycroft closed his eyes after his driver closed the door for him. It was a long day.

It has been only two years since Mycroft has officially took his way into the area of national affairs. Unofficially, it has been longer, of course, but he could never give anyone the advantage of underestimating his work that he's done when he was still at Oxford, only for his status of a student. Two years weren't a long time, and Mycroft was, no matter how unreal it was to say it, only a man. He was still at the stage of building connections and apprehending the whole complicated cobweb that was the British government.

And among his busy days of barreling his way into the heart of Great Britain were the days when he resented his older brother Sherrinford.

Sherrinford was, according to himself and regrettably to Mycroft as well, the smartest of the three Holmes brothers. He was the oldest of them all, too. With seven more years on his back and a even bigger brain in his head, Sherrinford was already at the pinnacle of the British government. Behind closed doors and hushed whispers, he was the hidden figure that had the most powerful authorities at his very disposal; The PM, for example, was nothing but for a publicity stunt that Sherrinford could move around like he moved his pawns on his chess board. He wouldn't do anything bad, of course, not because he couldn't, but because of the sense of patriotism that he and Mycroft (inexplicably) shared.

Mycroft followed his path because it was only natural. He craved power and he loved Britain. There really was no other choice.

But there were days like this when he cursed the nation of Union Jack.

Sherrinford has visited his office about an hour ago. And in that short period of time, he's silently judged, ridiculed, and incapacitated what Mycroft's been doing for the past month with the MI6. Mycroft couldn't be mad at him, of course, because Sherrinford was, as always, right. Mycroft has seen ten steps ahead; Sherrinford has seen twenty. Nobody else could even see one or two, he knew, but that was not the matter. From when he was young, he knew that nobody else other than the three of them actually mattered. They were the three humans living in the world of goldfish. And this time, like most of the times, Mycroft has lost to his brother. Again.

He despised the looks his competitors have sent him when he officially neutralized the project, as if they were the reason Mycroft had to back off. _None of you imbeciles know anything_ , he wanted to sneer. _How dare you even imagine you have outsmarted me._ _How dare you look at me as if we are even the same species._

"Where to, sir?" His driver asked quietly.

He needed to get away. Get away from the idiotic, self-reassuring delusional morons. Get away from their tiresome, futile mind games and their greedy eyes.

Get away from his brother.

He longed the company of the person that has been keep coming up to his mind lately, especially for days like this.

The one whose intelligence is not even close to Mycroft's, but who is smart enough to see and appreciate Mycroft's brilliance and competence. The one who cannot and will not even dream of dominating or competing against Mycroft. The one who will never, not in a million years, want authority and power the way Mycroft and Sherrinford have always desired, simply because he is not built that way. The one who will praise him and marvel at him, not mindlessly but with understanding; and who is, at the same time, completely devoid of the possibility of being his enemy or being 'the smart one.' The safe one.

Safe, and yet, attractive. That was John Watson.

"Barts' university," answered Mycroft.

He dialed the number as the car swiftly went into motion.

* * *

John woke up alone. He was in Mycroft's bed.

They had spent the night together; after a luxurious dinner like usual, Mycroft has taken John to his flat and the two of them watched _The Notebook_. Although Mycroft cringed and winced at the overt clichés, John could see that he appreciated the intensity and the beauty of the sentiment that was central to the theme. As far as John knew, Mycroft wasn't an emotional man, and he certainly stayed away from making romantic gestures to John. It didn't take a genius to know that Mycroft appreciated sentiment as long as it wasn't his own.

Then they went to bed.

Sex with Mycroft was a curious thing. Outside of bed, Mycroft moved as if his three-piece suit was tattooed onto his body. He was prim and proper even when he was in his own house. When he was at bed, the mannerisms were still there, and he was still controlling of every single thing like always, but there was a tiny bit of wiggle room in his impenetrable charisma, a tiny bit of a _possibility_ of vulnerability, when he orgasmed. It looked like he had allowed himself a miniscule moment of letting himself go completely, if only for that instant. That look on his almost always impassive and judgmental face was so alien to what John's known of Mycroft. To see it, to dig it out of him, it was addicting. John prided himself to be the one who could bring that side of Mycroft.

But of course, the luxury of seeing who was possibly one of the most dangerous men in London, completely undone, could last only for a couple of seconds. After the peak of orgasm, Mycroft was back to his detached, controlled self; cleaning himself and John up, not callously but not with affection, either, and then going to sleep without the cuddles and sweet-nothings that came in the afterglow of sex for most people. John was a bit hurt about it at first, but now he was okay with it. He understood Mycroft's boundaries, and he found no difficulty respecting them. So he slept, wordlessly, next to Mycroft's warm body. He wasn't kicked out of the bed after sex, at least.

And he always woke up alone the next day.

He yawned. He had class today, so he had to move soon. And damn, Mycroft's bedsheet was silky and smooth. He could rub his bare thighs against it all day long if he could.

When John came out into the kitchen after showering, he was surprised to see Mycroft at the breakfast table.

"Did you sleep well, John?" Mycroft asked, slicing a piece of toast on his plate and not looking up. There was a full English breakfast on it.

There was another plate in front of Mycroft's, all ready to eat. Was it for him?

"Yeah," answered John, a little bit shocked.

Of the several months they've been doing this, Mycroft was never there when John woke up. John supposed it was one of Mycroft's ways of dealing with his sexual partners, or that Mycroft was always busy in the mornings. So it was quite unusual to see Mycroft, in his three-piece suit, of course, sitting on the stool near the breakfast island, nonchalant.

"Join me, will you?" Mycroft asked, still without facing at John's direction.

"I- er, I should change-" John fumbled with his hands, pointing at himself. He just had a towel around his waist. He really wasn't expecting to see anyone in the kitchen.

"Nonsense," said Mycroft, finally looking at him.

An appreciative gaze raked over John's whole body. Slowly. It was filthy.

If that was how he was going to play this, then sure, thought John. He was confident in his skin. He could have breakfast almost naked.

John padded over and sat across Mycroft, who went back to his plate. English breakfast was John's favourite.

"Did you make this?" John asked.

"Of course not." Mycroft took a bite of his sausage. "I have a chef who comes in. You'll find the taste excellent."

John half-rolled his eyes. Of course he has a bloody chef coming in at Eight o' clock in the morning.

He started eating, and the space was soon filled with the sound of silverware clinking against china.

The food was indeed delicious. Never did John know that there was another level to a simple breakfast fry-up. Toast was crisp on the crust and soft on the inside, sausage was juicy and meaty, and his fried egg was cooked just the right amount so that John could spread it all on his toast with his beans. Delicious.

Halfway through his meal, John adjusted his seat, and his bare knees brushed against Mycroft's. The island was a bit small for two people, after all.

Mycroft was apparently ignoring it.

John moved his legs again, sliding against Mycroft's inner calf. The suit felt nice on his bare legs.

"Really, John," said Mycroft, his brows knitted. "It's juvenile."

"I don't know what you are talking about."

John shrugged.

Mycroft sighed, exasperated. But John could see that it was feigned to conceal the fact that he was, indeed, affected.

Interesting.

Because Mycroft always disappeared in the mornings, their sexual encounter always ended in the night, and never extended to mornings. But John was always a big fan of morning sex. It made him feel invigorated. Seeing Mycroft all dressed up in his immaculate suit, his body poised and collected like always and yet with a crack in his self-control showing in a way not many could know - it was more motivation towards it.

John took his leg back, making sure he didn't make any contact. Mycroft didn't comment on it, but John could see that he was trying to figure out what John was doing.

John made his posture straight, stretching out, making sure that his biceps and pectorals - they weren't not impressive, thank you very much - were emphasized as he did. His hair was slightly wet, and a drop of water took this moment to be its time to descend upon John's torso, sliding down on John's left nipple.

Mycroft looked away.

Several minutes later, John found himself crowded against the kitchen counter by a fully aroused Mycroft Holmes.

It looked like he was finally getting that morning sex.

* * *

"Mummy, be rational!"

"Don't you try that with me, young man. When I say no, I mean no."

Sherlock threw himself over the chaise longue in frustration. His mother did not bat a lash. She continued reading as if there wasn't her nearly grown-up son huffing and puffing next to her.

"But mummy, it's the Met! _The_ Scotland Yard!"

"Yes, dear. I'm not deaf."

"How can you crush your own child's dream like that, mother?"

That was completely ignored. Sherlock tried again.

"You and father had our abilities assessed. Surely, you can think of me able to take care of myself?"

She scoffed.

"Do you remember Carl Powers?"

That did it. His mother sighed, closed her eyes, removed her reading glasses and put them on the coffee table. She then looked over at his son. Sherlock continued, not giving her a chance to stop him in advance.

"He was murdered, and I was sure of it. But nobody believed me, and I was the clown of the whole school for years. A murderer was set free because people, including you, mummy, did not believe me. Are you really going to make the same mistake again? This time, it's not one annoying swimmer boy, but three adults in less than a month. The murderer is escalating, and he will _not stop_. Not until he's caught."

"Sherlock, what did I say about guilting people for your convenience?" Mummy asked, her voice stern.

Sherlock ignored it. "You saw the news. Everyone is convinced that they are all suicides, just because they can't figure it out. They need me. The Detective Inspector on the case said so. He hates me, but he needs me. That's how desperate they are. The longer you peg me down and prevent me from doing something under the _ridiculous_ excuse of keeping me safe, the more responsible you will be for the murders that could've been prevented if only you saw reason."

"Sherlock Holmes!" She was now glowering at him. "How many times do I need to say it, it is _not_ your place to catch murderers in London!"

"It might be!" Sherlock bellowed. "It might be, and you won't know it if I am perfect for the job, if you don't even give me a chance!"

Silence, and the two of them glared at each other, neither of them backing down.

"If you are so concerned about the lives of Londoners, I will let Mycroft or Sherrinford know. They will take care of it faster than you will, I'm sure." She said, with a calm voice.

Sherlock tried not to show his irritation at her not-so-subtle jab at his rivalry against his brothers.

"You and I both know that they do not care about a couple of deaths. Not when they don't affect their precious positions." Sherlock said with a sneer.

"Don't talk about your brothers like that, young man."

"You know I'm right."

Mrs. Holmes sighed and tilted her head back. Sherlock was always the difficult one. Sherrinford and Mycroft, they practically raised themselves. Ever since they were little, she knew that her children were too smart, too clever, too extraordinary for anyone else on the planet. It was sheer luck that two of them craved power, authority, and self-preservation; she was never worried about them when they started school, when they went off to universities, and when they started their careers. They would make sure that they themselves were okay.

But it was all too different with Sherlock. Her youngest child was the odd duckling of the three. He was reckless, he hated the idea of authority, and he never had a regard for his own well-being. In fact, it looked like he was interested in anything that could be harmful to himself. He was fascinated with dangerous items, including swords, poisons, and explosives; when Sherlock was ten, his favourite pastime activity after school was collecting pollen from poisonous flowers and making a catalogue out of them. One day, she caught him seconds before Sherlock was diving into a pile of monkshood with his bare hands, his little eyes glistening with wild fascination. It was a day she will not be able to forget until the day she dies.

And now, Sherlock was begging her to send him off to London. To solve a serial murder. With Scotland Yard.

She was worried. So, so, worried. Sherlock talks about her worries as if they were the most unnecessary, irrational thing ever. But she knew that it was justified. She knew that her youngest child, no matter how old, was still the same boy who was anxious to touch aconite without gloves, deep down. To put him next to murderers was the last thing she ever wanted to do. Sherlock trying to guilt her by mentioning preventable murders did nothing; she couldn't care less about them if it meant to keeping her son safe.

She also knew, however, that her little boy wasn't so little, now.

"I can't _wait_ going off to Cambridge!" Sherlock shouted behind him as he stormed outside of the room.

Cambridge. University. Sherlock becoming of legal age to do whatever he pleases. No mother can stop him then.

Massaging her temple for the imminent headache, she picked up her phone from her lap. Really, there was only one thing she could do.

* * *

John was the last one to shower, and because he'd already told everyone that he won't be going to the afterparty, he knew that he'll have the whole locker to himself when he got out. So he lingered in the water, relishing the feeling of cool water at his hot skin. Practice today was excellent. He ran, got his energy out, blocked successfully, got some good marks from his coach. Their match next month with Queen Mary was making everyone, including John, enthusiastic and energetic. The competition, the adrenaline, the energy - God, he loved it.

After a generous wash, he dried himself off and went out of the shower. He was not bothering to cover himself up.

Which was exactly why he almost screamed like a schoolgirl - but he didn't, he just gaped like a fish instead - , almost dropped his towel - but he didn't, he gripped it back at the last minute, thank god - when he saw a dark figure lingering near his locker. 

It was Sherlock.

John didn't miss the young boy's eyes widen as he took John in before looking away in haste.

"I- um. I didn't know-" Sherlock stuttered, blushing like crazy.

"What are you doing here?" John shouted. He hurriedly wrapped his lower half with the towel. It was barely enough.

"I didn't know you'd be... indecent," said Sherlock. He was now looking at his own shoes.

"I'd be- what the fuck, Sherlock? How did you even get in here? There's a lock on the door!"

Sherlock waved his hand, trying to look dismissive. It failed, because his eyes were still on his feet. "Please. Child's play." He took what looked like a lockpick from his coat pocket and held it in the air, giving a second for John to take a look.

"Oh my god," John groaned. He almost put his two hands up in the air, but realized that it could compromise his precarious towel placement, and stopped. "You could've given me a heart attack."

That made Sherlock glance up. "John, you're studying medicine. Surely you must know that the average age and BM ratio of those likely to suffer cardiac arrest at surprising incidents are nowhere close to what you are-"

"Yes, yes, alright," snapped John. "Now get out. I need to change."

"Of course," said Sherlock, hurriedly fleeing the room as he spoke.

The door shut with a click.

After John put his clothes on (he made sure there wasn't anyone else, this time), he opened the door and found Sherlock waiting for him. Sherlock took one look at John and walked past him to go inside. John followed him in.

Sherlock sat on the yellow bench between lockers. He was looking less blushing virgin and more like what John remembered of him in the rain.

"Sherlock," said John. "What are you doing here?"

"The Met. They contacted me, like I told you before."

John took a moment before understanding what Sherlock was talking about. The serial suicides. So the police actually called him? It was interesting news, but it still didn't answer his question.

"...And?"

"And I need you to help me."

"Help you? How?"

"By accompanying me to the crime scene. There's been another one, just hours ago. The Inspector for the case is insistent that he won't let me in unless I am accompanied by an adult. And well, you're one. Barely, but still."

"Hey! I'm at least- well, how old are you, exactly?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Age doesn't necessarily indicate competence of any kind."

John snorted. "You are not so good at deflecting as you think."

"You wouldn't know if I tried. Seventeen. I'm turning eighteen next January. So, believe me, I wouldn't have had to come here if only I were born three months earlier."

John sighed. Seventeen, that wasn't too bad. As much as John was barely an adult, Sherlock was barely a minor.

"Okay, then. You're seventeen, almost of age, and you need a legal adult. Why are you here?"

"I told you already, John. I need you."

"No, I'm asking, why me?"

Sherlock rattled away. "You're not a complete idiot, quick on your feet, athletic, and have medical knowledge. You live in central London, close enough to NSY and the crime scene. Need I say more?"

John took his time comprehending all that, and said: "Well- we've only met twice."

"So?"

"So, it's not something you'd normally ask to someone you've just met."

"Oh please," Sherlock huffed. "Normal's boring. Now," said Sherlock, suddenly leaping on his feet, "what do you say? All you need to do is to stand next to me and show your ID to the inspector in order to prove you're over eighteen."

"Sounds interesting indeed," John commented, sarcastically.

He said nothing else and walked over to his locker. He gathered his stuff, thinking about what Sherlock has just asked. John didn't go with his teammates to the pub because he had to study. And he did need to, because as any other third-year med student, he had exams almost every week. But what Sherlock has asked - to go to NSY and experience crime scene (an unsolved one, too!) firsthand, a situation that he'll mostly never experience in his lifetime ever again, now that, was so much more enticing than his studying. What would it be like? Will there be police tapes, police cars, and detectives and forensic scientists and constables all around? They'd be going under the police tape, while all the others have to stay outside of it, wouldn't they?

Oh, that was so more exciting than his eight-hundred page textbook on biochemistry. Even if all John gets to do is to show his ID and stand next to Sherlock like an idiot.

He could feel Sherlock's rapt attention on his back, waiting for John's answer. John shoved the last of his stuff into his bag, zipped it, and turned around.

He did owe Sherlock one for the umbrella, anyways.

The boy was watching him with hopeful eyes. Those innocent eyes were likely one of the very few things that give the boy's true age away, thought John.

"Alright, then."

Sherlock sat up, his eyes twinkling.

"Lead the way, Sherlock Holmes."

John slung his backpack over his shoulder and kicked the door shut.

Sherlock looked so happy at this that any remains of uncertainty in John's mind about following Sherlock vanished altogether.

"Yes!" Sherlock exclaimed, jumping in excitement. "Yes, I'll do that. Now come along, John!" He yelled, and him and his dramatic coat swished outside the room. Chuckling to himself, John ran after the mad boy genius.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Deduction from A Study in Pink almost verbatim from the show. I don't own it!

As soon as Sherlock was out in the daylight, he took one look around and muttered something unrecognizable under his breath. Wordlessly, he spun around and started marching towards god knows where. John didn't have much choice but to follow; his attempts to call the boy had been utterly ignored. Sherlock was walking fast, and John had to jog slightly not to lose him.

John caught the tall stick of blackness disappear behind the Physics building. As far as John knew, that place had nothing but trees and weed that grew up to your knees.

John ushered after him. Sherlock was standing near the back wall, and he was donning his coat off.

"What are we doing here?" John asked, walking up near him.

The place was even more hideous than John remembered. It was more than obvious that no management was being done in this area; the little yard of grass was so dense with nameless weeds and the wall was worn off, divested of a single patch of decent paint - it looked abandoned. There were piles of cigarette butts and a couple of small syringes - John made sure not to step on it - with a few wrappers and various kinds of trash all scattered over the little concrete ground that they had right near the wall. It was the only place that they could stand on without having to step on the grass.

"Give me your jacket." Sherlock demanded.

John was going to demand him an answer, but because Sherlock looked urgent, he sighed and took his rugby jacket off. It was burgundy and beige, and had "John Watson" sewn over his back.

Even before the jacket was off completely, Sherlock wrangled it from John's body impatiently and shoved him his coat. 

"Hey!" 

John's protest was quieted by Sherlock's hush.

"Listen. We are being followed." Sherlock muttered in a low voice.

"Followed?"

"Yes, John. Stop repeating what I say and just listen. We are being followed by someone who can control any CCTV in London. This is the only place in the vicinity that was safe from the cameras." Sherlock explained, gesturing around him. It wasn't surprising; it looked like the whole school had forgotten that such place existed, save for some students who came to smoke. "We don't have much time, though, before they eventually realize where we've went and ambush here."

"But why? Who's following us? Is this connected to the crime you're investigating?"

Sherlock slung over his jacket around him. It looked slightly awkward on him - the boy was all public school, posh hair, posh trousers, and although his jacket was not cheap, it looked a bit too casual on him.

He didn't answer John's question, and instead coughed a couple of times as if trying to find the right voice, straightened his posture and stroke various poses, murmuring something as he went.

"...'mate, me and the lads going to hit the club later..."

"...lookin' like a piece of meat... fuck that, whip me up some o' that g'd stuff..."

John didn't catch all of it, but what John could hear, it was ridiculous. The accent was like he'd learned it from a book or something. And the content of it was equally ridiculous. He must be thinking of the stereotypical, media-portrayed university jocks that hit the club 24/7 because they don't have something better to do.

John snickered.

"I don't know what you're doing, but that's not how we talk," said John.

"It doesn't matter." Sherlock retorted. He sounded a bit petulant. "I only need to fool those who think this is how you talk."

John wondered if he had to feel insulted at being overgeneralized. He didn't. 

"Fold that coat and put it in your backpack."

"What? Why?"

"Just do as I say, John. I'll explain later. Now stop asking questions and hurry! We're running out of time."

John sighed and did what he was told. The coat was bloody bulky but he managed it. When he was done, Sherlock approached him, and when John was going to voice his discomfort for standing too closely, Sherlock combed through his still-wet hair.

"What're you-"

"Shh."

A whiff of scent perturbed John's senses as Sherlock kept doing things to his hair. It was impossible not to look at Sherlock's face while he did so. He was concentrating, and the tiny furrow that appeared in the middle of his brows when he did was oddly captivating. It could be because of Sherlock's two, glass-like eyes. They were completely different from Mycroft's; they glistened, almost iridescent under the sunlight. John had to admit that, although he'd never say it out loud because it might be inappropriate, Sherlock was beautiful in an unconventional way.

"There."

Sherlock stepped back, took a glance at John's overall feature, and smirked with satisfaction. John didn't know exactly what Sherlock has done, but he could guess that his hair was a lot calmer and looking more groomed, judging by his feel.

Sherlock took his suit jacket off without taking off John's rugby jacket in breakneck speed and threw it over to John, unannounced. Thank god John caught it, because it certainly wasn't the type of thing that fitted the treatment to a filthy, questionably littered concrete floor.

"Wear that. Yes, leave the bottom button open. Straighten your spine and push your chest out. Not too much, John, don't be an idiot."

Although John grumbled, he followed Sherlock's instructions, and after a while, Sherlock made an approving noise.

"That'll do. You look like a malfunctioning robot, but it's enough to do the job."

" _What_ job, exactly?" John snapped.

Sherlock ignored him again. Instead, he observed their surroundings, nodded to himself a couple of times, and pulled his gloves out of his pocket. 

"John," he started, wearing them. It looked out of place with how he carried himself now - a popular and brainless uni jock - and John still couldn't figure out what was going on.

"I am going to climb this-" said Sherlock, pointing at the pipe stuck on the wall. It was rusty and slim. "And you are going to help me. I need to get into that window."

"What? That's-"

"Suicidal? Well. What's life without a little risk?"

Sherlock smirked, and John had to let out a laugh in disbelief, because what he's said was very much in Sherlock's character right now. It was exactly what cheesy twenty-somethings thinking themselves as cool would say.

"Once I get up there, I will find a way to help you up. And then-"

"What if you can't? Find a way, I mean." John interjected.

Sherlock scoffed. "Look at the state of that ventilator. It's clean and yet old. Everything else is severely undermanaged except for that one. Why? Because it is legally required to maintain laboratory ventilators in a certain state. That window is most likely connected to an Applied Physics lab. I can't ask for a better place to find stuff for a break-in than a laboratory."

"But what if-"

"Dark windows but the marks are uneven, suggesting that it's not a curtain, it's the inside equipment reflecting whatever little sunlight this side of the building offers to the room. This means empty laboratory. Even better, I just checked the booking site, nobody's booked that lab for the next three hours. There's no need to fret over getting caught. One side of the windows are darker than the other, and it's only because there are two sets of windows and the other only one; the vertical lines on the darker side are distinguishably separate, meaning that one of it is pushed slightly further than the other, suggesting that the window is not locked. Conclusion: stop worrying about my plan."

"...Fantastic!"

John didn't have the chance to stop himself before he blurted that out. He didn't regret it, though, because well, it was bloody fantastic. 

Sherlock looked away, coughing slightly. 

"Now, assuming you don't have any other... _inane_ questions for this time-sensitive plan, start helping me climb up."

John could clearly see the boy's cheek blushing, which made the condescending comments lose its bite. Completely.

"Alright, then."

For the next few minutes, John helped Sherlock step on his shoulders and then his backpack. The boy was surprisingly heavy, despite being scrawny on the outside. John managed it without much difficulty, however, because Sherlock distributed his weight well between John and the rusty pipe. John understood why he wore those gloves before climbing.

A little precariously, Sherlock succeeded in opening the window with one leg on John's shoulder and the other on the pipe. It creaked open. Taking a look inside, he jumped in.

In less than a couple of minutes, a sturdy rope that looked like it was made from a couple of lab coats came tumbling down the wall. He could see Sherlock's messy black curls at the end of it, hinting that he was at the other end, holding onto it.

 _Well, time to test my upper body strength, then_ , thought John, although he never thought he'd test it this way.

He took the makeshift rope in hand. It felt strong. The knots were in ways that John had never seen before. Probably one of those fishermen ropes or something. He made sure that both of his hands were tight on it, and started stepping onto the wall, putting his whole weight against the wall and the rope. 

He could feel through the rope that Sherlock was putting his own weight down on the other side. Step by step, John climbed. To not slip against the slippery concrete wall with only the help of a rope was a challenging thing. He was very close to slipping and left dangling on the rope - that was the worst case scenario, because Sherlock won't be able to lift him up and eventually, John will have to crash into the dirty concrete floor - but he didn't, and finally, he could set his foot on the windowsill that looked like it hasn't been cleaned for a decade.

Sherlock was holding on to the rope along with the help of some microscopes. 

"That wasn't easy," said John, collecting his breath, and being a bit proud of himself.

"I suppose not. There's a reason I chose you to go last." Sherlock remarked dryly, collecting the rope back.

John took it as a compliment.

"Now what?"

"Now we take a crowd that we can merge in."

Sherlock closed the window. The lab immediately became dark, with the little bit of sunlight seeping through. He threw away his rope, and took out his phone. The light from the phone made Sherlock's cheekbone inhumanely sharper; he looked like an alien.

"According to this Facebook page, we have a group of students bored enough to escape their class in ten minutes. They will be crossing the hallway from the right in any minute. Ten to eleven students, and several of them graduated from boarding schools. They're likely to wear suits. Great for you to join in. Don't talk to them, don't act like you are doing anything that involves them. Just walk with them, not too far away, and remember what I told you about your walks. Try to imitate them if you can. As soon as you're out, follow them until they start realizing that you're in the pack. Leave them and head onto the café near the Chemistry department. I will meet you there."

After rattling so, Sherlock grabbed John's backpack out of his grasp and slung it over his right shoulder.

He did look like a jock, however clichéd and stereotypical. His posture and the placement of the jacket somehow made him look bigger and muscular; it filled exactly the right places to deceive the eyes.

It was astonishing, how he could portray himself as someone completely different in a matter of seconds.

"And before I go, John, the best disguise is to hide in plain sight. Do not attempt anything out of your way to convince the onlooker."

With that, Sherlock vanished, leaving John in the empty classroom.

It was only then that John realized that he had left his phone in the jacket that Sherlock wore. So no communication was possible, until the meeting at the café. The only option left for John now was to follow exactly what Sherlock has told him, and hope they meet again without the plan going awry somehow in the middle.

Although John still didn't know what was going on, who was following them and if he should be trusting Sherlock on this, he found himself somehow eager to follow what he's been told.

Soon, he could hear a loud chatter with heavy footsteps. He could see a crowd of students pouring from the stairs on the right side of the lab door, and just like Sherlock has told him, many of them were in semi-formal jackets. 

John's heart beat deeply inside his ears as he hurriedly joined them.

None of them realized anything; the group of students were comprised with friends, acquaintances, and strangers. Nobody cared and nobody knew that there was someone that wasn't from their physics 301 class. John made sure not to look too stiff nor too casual as he merged himself among the pile of suit jackets and posh accents - and like that, he was successfully out of the building in what couldn't be more than a minute.

The crowd began to wane down as they started to dissipate, going by their ways, and as John sensed the one standing on his right side-eyeing him in confusion, he left the group and walked across the lawn. The chemistry building wasn't too far off. 

As he strolled as if there wasn't anything happening, he could feel his blood pumping through his veins, and it was just like what he felt after a good match but even stronger. 

It was exhilarating.

He found the café and because he still had his wallet on, he could order himself a cup of tea. He liked coffee, but he felt too excited now to drink caffeine. 

After sitting down with his cup, he watched curiously around, looking for Sherlock. He wasn't there. Probably taking a bit longer, then. John sipped on his cup, and wondered mindlessly about what was going on. Why would someone suddenly follow him and Sherlock? Because John has done nothing extraordinary in his life, it must've had to do with Sherlock, that was for sure.

The door chimed and John could see a tall jock in a rugby jacket, who had his hair completely slicked back, trudge in.

It took a moment before John realized that it was Sherlock.

Seeing John, Sherlock smirked, still in character, and gave him a lazy salute. John didn't have the chance to do anything (because he was so surprised at the hair) before Sherlock took his gaze away and ordered himself a cup. 

"What did you do to your hair?" John asked when Sherlock came to sit in front of him with a cup.

"Hmm. Nicked some oil from the lab. Nothing hard."

Sherlock was, apparently, still enjoying himself. John rolled his eyes but he knew he didn't look too annoyed. He was too intrigued.

"What are we doing now?" John asked, leaning closely.

Sherlock observed him with a curious glance.

Then, just like that, he changed back to his original self with a snap of his fingers. His posture changed completely - no more of the brainless, look-at-my-enormous-dick thrust kind of sitting with his legs spread apart; his head was snapped back up high from being laid back and looking idiotic and brainless, and even his grasp on the cup changed into something more graceful, more gripping with all of his fingers rather than the ragged, beer-chugging way of handling it that it was moments ago.

It was simply, amazing.

"Thank you," said Sherlock, quietly, meeting John's eyes. 

John realized that he'd just spoken out the last thought out loud.

"Er- oh, well, welcome," he stammered. It was the first time the boy didn't deflect or look away from his compliments, and something in John's stomach flipped itself over at the look Sherlock was giving John right now.

"So, um, what are we doing again?" John asked, changing the topic hastily.

Fortunately, Sherlock took it. "We are finally free to go to the Met. The DI is expecting me soon. We'll need to take a cab. Don't worry, I'll pay."

John silently agreed to this, because even if John wasn't penniless, London cab fare was something that he could not afford easily.

"Who were following us, then?"

Sherlock suddenly looked away. "Hm. Not important. Let's go, John."

He stood up. "I don't think we should keep our disguises anymore, but it is best if we still wore these clothes until we arrived at the Met. We don't have to do anything else, of course, and so you will be able to walk in whatever way you please."

"Hang on, Sherlock- won't you answer my question?"

"I said, not important. Come on, John. Scotland Yard needs us!"

As John ran after him, he wondered if him following Sherlock will be a regular thing.

* * *

The cab ride was filled with Sherlock feeding details of the first three cases to John, and before he knew it, they were at Lauriston Gardens. Many of the constables frowned immediately when they saw Sherlock, and after an angry conversation - more like Sherlock's rapid rattling deductions and the officer's shouting abuse - and a radio call to the DI, they were let in.

Detective Inspector Lestrade, the man-in-charge introduced himself to John. He surveyed John's ID carefully, as if he doubted forgery, and Sherlock huffed and puffed in irritation until they were finally cleared to see the body.

Five minutes later, Sherlock was jumping around the corpse in excitement, spilling out deductions.

"... Her coat - it's slightly damp, she's been in heavy rain the last few hours - no rain anywhere in London in that time. Under her coat collar is damp too. She's turned it up against the wind. She's got an umbrella in her pocket but it's dry and unused. Not just wind, strong wind -too strong to use her umbrella. We know from her suitcase that she was intending to stay overnight but she can't have travelled more than two or three hours because her coat still hasn't dried. So - where has there been heavy rain and strong wind within the radius of that travel time? Cardiff. She travelled from Cardiff today intending to stay in London one night from the size of her suitcase." 

"Brilliant! Sorry."

"Do you know that you do that out loud?"

"Sorry. I'll stop."

"No, it's... fine."

It turned out that surprisingly, despite the staggering evidence that there must be a pink suitcase, there wasn't one.

Sherlock was adamant that they find it, because apparently, it was an easy enough job for the incompetent NSY officers to take care of. 

Sherlock gave Lestrade rapid instructions as to where to look for the (obviously) missing suitcase, and with promises that they will let Sherlock know as soon as they find the case, the two of them were back on the streets, outside the police tape and away from the scornful looks of the constables.

* * *

The case was over. Well, at least until the officers found the pink suitcase, their job was done. Or so it seemed like it, at least to John.

They stood on the pavement next to the crime scene, and John realized that he was still in Sherlock's suit jacket and Sherlock still in his rugby jacket. John was about to suggest that they finally switch clothes when Sherlock grabbed John's wrist and ran into a back alley nearby.

"What- What's going on?"

"Shh!"

Sherlock covered John's mouth with his hand, crouching his whole body over John's. It was cold, dry, and large. Large enough to cover John's whole face.

John didn't resist and immediately silenced himself. Sherlock seemed like he was listening to something.

John couldn't hear anything other than the usual sounds of London, but he waited, patiently.

Seconds passed, and Sherlock stood back up, taking his hand off and distancing himself from John. The place where his hands were on John's face felt suddenly empty.

"Are we clear?" John asked, ignoring the feeling.

"Yes."

"And are you finally going to tell me who we're running away from?"

Sherlock smirked, leisurely, contradicting his earlier, rather urgent movements.

"Not now, John."

He then started to take his jacket off, and handed it back to John. John, seeing this, donned his suit jacket off - it was getting uncomfortably tight on his shoulders, so thank god - and exchanged it with his own clothes. Sherlock zipped open John's backpack that he's been carrying and took his coat out. 

When the two of them were back to what they looked like earlier that day - except for Sherlock's slick hair, it still stayed that way -, Sherlock stuck his back to the wall and watched the road, not leaving the shadows of the narrow alley they were hiding in.

 _If we're being followed, why are we changing back?_ John thinks, but stays quiet.

"They now know our disguise, so there's no need for it." Sherlock commented as if he'd read John's mind.

John scoffs, shakes his head fondly.

"Okay, then. So now what?"

Sherlock flicked a glance back at John. He looked bemused and intrigued. But it was only for a moment, after which Sherlock quickly turned his attention back on the road.

"Now, we move. But we can't take the main road. We have to use the other way."

"Alright... and which way is that?" John questioned.

Sherlock looked back, and winked. "The roof, of course."

* * *

Nobody, not even the best damn cartographer of Great Britain would've known that there were such an intricate ways to travel around London via roofs. John was sure of it.

John jumped between buildings, ran up the fire escape, laughing, giddy, shouting "Unbelievable!" and "No way!" but following anyways, tripped over, ran into dead ends, felt dizzy when he looked down, until Sherlock finally stopped.

The tall boy genius stopped on a roof that John didn't recognize, because of course, he doesn't look for roofs when he goes to places.

"Where are we?" John asked, gathering his breath.

Sherlock was getting his breath back too, and after a beat, he answered: "St. Bart's hospital."

"Bart's? Why are we at bloody Bart's?"

"Because I need to borrow one of their labs," said Sherlock, taking a vial out of his pocket. It had a cotton swab sealed in it.

John stared at it, not knowing what it meant, and then-

"Did you _steal_?"

Sherlock shrugged, and put it back. "It's vomit from a dead woman's body, John. It's hardly anyone's property."

John gaped, still staring at Sherlock in disbelief.

And after a moment, he started to break into laughter.

Laughter turned into giggles, and Sherlock followed him in low rumbles.

"Oh my god," said John, feeling little drops of tears welling up near his eyes. "You absolute lunatic. When did you even- I can't believe you."

"When Lestrade turned around to order his constables about the suitcase."

"That- that was like a second!"

Sherlock grinned. He looked happy.

"I know."

John shook his head in disbelief, and a distinct fondness towards this - this unbelievable wonder of a creature in front of him - washed all over him as he did so.

"I can't believe you hopped around roofs," said John. "I can't believe _I_ hopped around roofs."

"There's a first time for everything, I suppose."

"You tell me. God. That was the most ridiculous thing I've ever done."

"More than the deer?"

John looked up, seeing Sherlock watching him with amused eyes.

John barked out a short laugh.

"More than the deer," he affirmed.

The two of them looked at each other for a while before Sherlock abruptly took his gaze away.

"We have to get down, now. We don't have much time," said Sherlock. "Got your breath back?"

"Ready when you are."

The two of them scrambled down the building, using the narrow fire escape. Sherlock attempted to open every window that he passed, but they were all locked, somehow. So the two of them had to eventually arrive at the landing. As soon as they did, however, a black car stopped near them, making a screeching sound.

"Oh God!" Sherlock exclaimed, exasperated. "Will you please leave me ALONE!" He bellowed at the car.

The car door opened, and two men in black suits and sunglasses strolled towards them. Then, _shockingly_ , they immediately seized Sherlock in both sides, blocking any way of escape, and dragged him away. Sherlock was yelling, screaming, his feet dragging on the pavement and people around them watched over with concern - but the two men were completely unperturbed.

What the _fuck_ was going on?

"Sherlock!" John yelled, running towards the two men, but they pushed John out of their way with ease and concentrated on putting Sherlock inside their car. When John clambered back up as quick as he could, the car was already gone, without a trace.


	4. Chapter 4

Sherlock huffed, curled himself in a ball, and glared at the space in front of him. He was sandwiched between two SIS agents, and from experience he knew that these men would not budge from their seats, no matter what kind of insult Sherlock threw in their faces.

Today had been perfect, _so_ perfect.

This afternoon, while he was buried in his pile of experiments, he had a message from DI Lestrade. A new suicide ( _not_ suicide, murder, Sherlock corrected him) had just been discovered, he'd said, and that he wanted Sherlock to take a look at it. He begrudgingly admitted Sherlock's theory of the serial suicides actually being serial murders because in this case, there was a note, and it hardly looked like a note left by someone who was going to kill herself.

A serial killer with a note, it was Christmas. The only flaw in the electrifying news was the fact that he was "grounded" by his stupid parents who still thought of him as a child and that Lestrade was a coward who didn't want to take responsibility of a legal minor on his crime scene unless there was a guardian to whom said responsibility could be shifted. ( _As if age means anything. This criterion of judging one's competence based on the days they've sustained is one of the main reasons for this goldfish's world being so moronic and ineffective_.)

It was child's play to escape his deserted parents' house, of course, but what would he do about the Lestrade part? He could show up without a guardian, barge his way in and dazzle Lestrade until he forgets his stupid caveat. But there was the danger of Lestrade taking notice and not agreeing to Sherlock's future participating in the case, which Sherlock might need to solve the case. Serial killers rarely made a mistake easy enough for Sherlock to solve in one sitting, he needed to be included in the follow-up measures, the full-on investigation. Just distracting Lestrade wouldn't work. He had to bring someone.

He could just fool anyone off the streets and make them play the part. He could pay them, even; he had some money left from his allowance, because he didn't have to buy anything these past few months. He even had Mycroft's card. But it took convincing and planning and detailed observation to pick a perfect dummy. It should be someone not too interfering, someone that wouldn't bother Sherlock after his usefulness has been drained; it should be someone who wouldn't have problem with the police force, someone who didn't have a criminal record, someone who was decent enough and had the image of an overall fine citizen so that Lestrade would feel fine dumping the responsibility of Sherlock on him or her. Someone who was gullible enough for Sherlock to convince them coming with him to the scene. Oh, and someone who was unfazed by seeing a dead body and an actual crime scene.

To pick someone like that off the street would take time. And Sherlock didn't have much time. The corpse was decomposing every second he took. Lestrade has promised him two hours, and insisted that he had to send the body off to the morgue after that. A corpse too far in its decomposing state wouldn't be too much useful for Sherlock as well. He needed to see, he needed to observe everything before the idiots at NSY erased everything significant from the scene by removing the body with their intrusive, idiotic hands.

That was when he remembered John Watson. 

Mycroft's paramour, or something boring like that. The small blond who had seemingly enjoyed their little talk in the rain ( _Sherlock didn't trust this to last, of course. Nobody enjoyed Sherlock's presence after knowing him a while, and he knew this from vast amount of data._ ) and who had invited Sherlock up for tea, signaling that he wanted to spend more time with Sherlock. What if he invited John to a crime scene instead of tea? Would John still be up for it? John was a med student in his third year, surely he had autopsy classes - he couldn't be that affected by a dead body, despite the context of it being a victim of a serial murder. He also recalled John's excitement in his eyes when he fought Sherlock off and pressed him against the fridge the first time they encountered one another. John wasn't someone who recoiled at the face of dangerous situations, for sure. John's pupils dilated, his heartbeat elevated; in front of violence, he was excited, not afraid, and focused, not distracted.

So he asked John. And he said yes. A bit surprisingly; he hadn't expected John to agree so easily.

The car was taking a turn, and observing this, Sherlock could deduce that his mother had called Sherrinford instead of Mycroft. It was usually Mycroft's business to take care of Sherlock, but apparently, Mrs. Holmes took this occasion so seriously that she had to call the oldest, sliest, and the overall worst mastermind of the family and not settle for second best. 

His phone buzzed, and the two agents did not budge at the sound. Sherrinford was not confiscating his phone this time, then. 

**What's going on? Are you okay? I called the cops but they are all ignoring me.**

The cops. How adorable. Unwittingly, a whiff of laughter escaped Sherlock's mouth. This surprised the agent on his right, although he thought he didn't show; but of course he noticed. Sherlock ignored it.

**Unless you have higher authority than the British government, I don't think you will be able to rescue me. SH**

**Oh, thank god. You can use your phone.**

**Obviously. SH**

**So you're safe?**

**Yes. Too safe, I'd say. SH**

Sherlock had noticed that John's typing speed was unbearably slow. Probably the mixture of an advanced phone and an almost-ludditeness of John. At least he didn't use any insipid abbreviations that the younger generation of the texting population seemingly invested themselves into these days. He waited, patiently, as he drummed his fingers against his thigh, waiting for John's response. The air in the car has become surprisingly lighter, and his mood suddenly lifted. The dread that filled his stomach knowing that the car was heading straight to his parents - it vanished altogether. 

**What do you mean the British government? Are you a fugitive or something?**

**At the age of seventeen? SH**

**Well. You did run across the roofs of London today, played a perfect disguise, and was chased by someone who could operate any CCTVs in the city.**

Yes. Yes, he did. And it has been _fantastic_. The hiding and being chased, climbing walls, disguising and jumping around roofs and fire escapes. Oh, he felt so _alive_.

**You yourself have undertaken all mentioned activities, as well. Does it mean that you are a fugitive? SH**

**Although I wouldn't say your disguise was perfect. SH**

**Git. I have never been chased in my life. We both know it was you.**

That was true. That was true, and it had surprised Sherlock several times this afternoon. For every single time Sherlock had expected John to cop out, John had surprised him. He didn't cop out, but instead asked what they were doing next. They. Together. It was apparently natural for John to think that he wasn't going to leave Sherlock alone, despite the glaring fact that it was obviously Sherlock's tail that was being chased and that John didn't have any obligation to stay with him.

Sherlock didn't know what to think of it. It showed John's character as a ... what? Caretaker? Team player? Thrill-seeker?

Or was it something of Sherlock's, something from his side that made John _want_ to follow him? 

Danger!

Sherlock shut down that line of thought immediately and texted back.

**Regardless, John. I'm not a fugitive. It is simply my obnoxious brother who decided that I have had too much fun for today. SH**

**Mycroft??**

Two question marks and a hasty reply. Of course. Sherlock rolled his eyes.

**The other one. SH**

**Oh. Sherrinford? Is that how you spell it?**

**Yes. SH**

**I didn't know your oldest brother was the British government.**

Sherlock scoffed at this. Apparently Mycroft has _actually_ been private with John.

**It's hardly a surprise. Both the government and my two brothers are supercilious, incredibly nosy and controlling. Once you realize it, it's harder to take them apart. SH**

**Ha ha. Funny.**

John thought he was funny. Good. Sherlock then noticed the agent on his left was now incredulously checking his face through the reflection on the side mirror, and then realized that he has been beaming at his phone. Beaming, he was indeed; grinning from ear to ear like an idiot. Ugh. He quickly changed his face to a sulking one.

**Wait, Mycroft can check CCTVs too?**

It seemed that Sherlock had changed his face appropriately to the topic at hand. Who wants to talk about _Mycroft_?

**Yes. Don't believe him when he says that he can't, or that he doesn't check them too often. SH**

The phone stayed quiet longer than before. Probably having a mid-walk crisis at the fact that the man he's been dating was, in fact, omnipotent. Sherlock let out a low hum, tapped his feet against the seat of his car, and deduced people that he could see through the car window. _Has two dogs, recently married, just visited a hospital this morning, boring, boring, pass, a drop-out from university who just got kicked out from his flat and doing- drugs? Maybe, need more data, he's too far away... pass, a doctor in her mid-fourties, a surgeon, has asthma, has a daughter or a husband who likes to gift her accessories... oh god, it was all so boring! He should rather think of the experiment he'd left in his room this morning, probably -_

The phone he'd left on his thigh buzzed. Sherlock hastily fumbled it open, ignoring the two agents' curious looks that they believe are inconspicuous. 

_**I found the case. What now?** _

Oh, it was Lestrade.

**List all items that you found inside. And don't leave anything out. I will know. SH**

Another minute has passed, and still no reply from John. It was possible that John decided to end the conversation without any word of parting. Sherlock did it all the time. But he knew that it was part of social conventions to not end one without phrases like "good bye," or "take care," or, in the case of texts, annoyingly something like "ttyl," "gtg," or something of the sort. Sherlock just never cared for social conventions, but others did. John definitely did. He also knew that this convention hinged on two conditions: one, if the conversation wasn't obviously ending, and two, if the participant was trying to be polite. Was John not trying to be polite with him? But he seemed to be enjoying the conversation they were having. Wasn't he? Regardless, Sherlock sent him another text. John was involved in the case, too, and it was only logical that he was sent the information regarding said case.

**Lestrade found the case. SH**

Two texts came in almost at once.

**And?**

_**Toiletries, a bunch of clothes, magazines, makeup, notebooks, a camera, two sets of microphones, clear liquid in a small bottle.** _

Sherlock frowned. That wasn't right. Oh. _Oh_. 

**No phone? SH**

_**No phone.** _

"Turn the car around this instant. All of you will be responsible for four new murders in the next month if you don't." Sherlock announced to the rest of the car.

Nobody responded, and silence continued. Sherlock didn't really expect much else from his brothers' minions, but it was worth a try.

He looked around, and found nothing that could be even remotely used as a weapon. Sherrinford did learn from his mistakes, of course.

Almost growling in frustration, Sherlock typed furiously on his phone.

**Track the phone. Immediately. SH**

_** It takes at least three hours to do that. Are you sure? ** _

Useless! How could the NSY be this incompetent?

**What did you find out about the victim? Did you find out what 'Rachel' meant? SH**

** _Margaret Wilson, 34. Works in media. Was in London for a job. She had a stillborn daughter named 'Rachel' ten years ago._ **

So it was sentimental. That still didn't make sense. Why would she scratch the name 'Rachel' at the wooden floor by her dying breath, and leave her phone with the murderer? Did the murderer deliberately took the phone? That didn't happen before, so highly unlikely.

_**There's a tag on the suitcase, too. Has her e-mail address and name on it.** _

Oh!

"You really should let me out, there's a serial killer on the loose," Sherlock sung melodically. "Your wife will not be pleased to know about this, yes I'm talking to you, Mr. Driver. She's a hardcore romance fan. She already dislikes the fact that you had to work on your day off, and what will she say when she receives a phone call in the middle of the night informing her that you didn't so bravely rebel against your boss to save the lives of innocent Londoners? That you just conceded to the pressure of society instead? Oh, don't make that face, you must already know that none of you idiots can hide anything from people like me."

The driver didn't stop, but Sherlock knew his resolve was getting weaker.

"The serial suicides, you must've heard it in the news. There's been a new one, and I'm so close to catching the murderer. Yes, they are all murders. You know I'm right. I'm a Holmes. We're never wrong."

The car stopped at a red light. The two agents guarding him went rigid, trying to offset any attempt at an escape. The driver cast an uneasy glance at Sherlock through his rearview mirror, at which Sherlock looked straight back.

When the driver hesitated to remove the gear from neutral to drive, the agent in his left spoke: "It's better than to be murdered by S himself."

Hastily, he put his gear back on D, and they drove swiftly away, back onto the track to his parents. Hateful. Sherlock scowled.

 **Rachel is possibly the password. If her phone's an iPhone, there's a tracking service for it. Use the email written as her id and 'rachel' for her password. All lowercase.** **SH**

Several minutes passed. Sherlock was cataloguing various alternative possibilities just in case her phone wasn't an iPhone when the text came in.

_**We got the coordinates, but it's moving.** _

**Of course it's moving, it's in the murderer's car! SH**

_**What do you mean it's the car?** _

**Please! The suitcase. It's pink. It sticks out horribly. The murderer couldn't have taken it intentionally. It was a mistake on the killer's part. He didn't know, or he forgot of the case, otherwise he would have left it with the body. But he found it after he murdered Margaret Wilson and he had to dispose of it. He wouldn't have had found it afterwards if he wasn't in some sort of a vehicle with the woman before she died, otherwise he'd have noticed the suitcase immediately out in the air. So, a vehicle.** **It's a suitcase, it needs something bigger than a bike to carry it, and therefore it's a car or a variant of it. Margaret Wilson must have left her case behind when she was threatened to walk out of it. She wouldn't have scratched that message on the floor unless she was certain that she had planted her phone well near the killer's location. Conclusion: she must've left her phone where she could before she got out of the car, and where she was certain that it could help us catch the killer.** **Chase the car, apprehend the driver, and there's your murderer. SH**

_ **Shit, are you sure?** _

**Yes I am. Now move! I'm almost assured that the phone is pink as well and it won't escape his notice too long. SH**

_**What about the clear liquid? Isn't that something we should look into first?** _

**Oh my god, it's diluted acetone 90%. Didn't you see her nails? SH**

**Now MOVE! SH**

**Are you going? SH**

_**Yes!** _

Sherlock leaned back into the backseat of the car with a sigh. It would've been so much better if he could chase down the coordinates himself. Why wouldn't just everyone leave him ALONE? He closed his eyes, blamed Sherrinford, blamed his parents, blamed the stupid driver and the two agents guarding the door as if they aren't completely wasting their time and energy trying to be promoted at MI6 by impressing his brother - which won't happen, because they already failed to catch Sherlock at the university campus - and imagined what he could've done, if he was free on the street. He would chase the murderer faster than anyone in the Yard, and-

Maybe he could've had John follow him too, because he'd like it, Sherlock knew, and because Sherlock appreciated John's company. John liked it, liked the chase, the danger, the thrill, and he seemingly enjoyed being with Sherlock, too, no matter how improbable that was to be true. He liked what Sherlock did and said things like "amazing," or "brilliant," or "fantastic," (he'd said them four, three, and one time, respectively, during their whole encounter since Musgrave) and he had this look on his face when he watched Sherlock as if he was marveling at what Sherlock was capable of doing - the look of pure amazement, adoration... And John's excitement at chasing down an actual criminal will be tangible through his expressive face and body movements and it would send electrifying sensations down Sherlock's spine... John will get all wide-eyed, giddy, giggling, breathless, looking up at Sherlock with that distinct fondness of which John has only allowed glimpses to Sherlock, and when he acknowledges himself, he might lick his bottom lip sheepishly, because he showed his heart too much...

The way John stared down at Sherlock in confusion and wariness when he pushed him against the fridge.

John's pulse, still vivid in his ears, the smell of excitement and adrenaline strong against him.

The warmth, his breath, the strong grasp on Sherlock's wrists.

Sherlock's eyes snapped open when he realized that he was straining against his trousers. He looked down and immediately observed a bulge in his groin.

It would be an understatement to say that Sherlock was horrified. He's never had an erection before, other than those of biological necessities - those inconveniences that he impatiently willed away several mornings of the week, to be precise - and certainly not one that was born out of evident sexual arousal.

So _this_ was the sexual drive that had long before infiltrated the others around his age. The drive that Sherlock had firmly believed himself to be exempt of its effects, up until now. This, _this_ was what they called sexual attraction.

It muddled his brain, his mind, and the memories of John's face and body were fuzzy and romanticized and heavily emphasized in certain areas in his otherwise clear mind's eye.

Buzz.

**Sherlock? What happened with the suitcase?**

John. Sherlock mechanically answered the text with the relevant details, informing John of the progress and the prospect of taking the culprit into custody soon.

What was happening to him, he had no idea. For the first time since he'd been forcefully seated in the car, Sherlock's brain stayed quiet, overwhelmed in anticipation and fear of the unknown change that has been made within himself, his own body betraying himself so furtively and stealthily, utterly unbeknownst to him. 

* * *

"Stop here." Mycroft ordered the driver.

The windows to his Rolls-Royce was a one-way vision glass; he could see everyone outside the car, but it didn't work the other way around.

Power of gaze. The power inherent in the unilateral structure of those who watch and those who are watched. It's typical, a cliché; the reasons, the mechanisms of such power structure have been dissected up to the smallest element by countless scholars. Nonetheless, just like anything serious ever is, it is absolute.

Mycroft watched John behind his one-way windows.

John was standing next to the phone booth, waiting for Mycroft's car to pick him up.

The relationship between the two first started when John, unwittingly, made friends with a high-profile assassin that went by the name 'Mary.' The woman had been on Interpol's most wanted list for two years, and CIA's classified list for five. Despite the age difference between the two, they became close, and in the end, John was instrumental in finally taking the elusive criminal into custody. At first, Mycroft suspected heavily about John's involvement with Mary and her incriminating exercises, because Mary and John became too close too fast. One day, they were exchanging names and shaking hands, and the next week, they were found kissing on the doorstep to the hospital that Mary worked.

It wouldn't have been so suspicious if it was just any other couple - John, specifically, was a young, hot-blooded uni student that had somehow acquired the nickname of "Three Continents Watson" at the age of twenty - Mycroft winced at the puerile nature of the moniker every time he thought of it - but it was suspicious because it was Mary, the woman in her late thirties who had been through hell and back (literally), who would never endanger herself by kissing a young boy just out of his teenage years. But she did, and she did it in front of the CCTV that was installed in front of the hospital, leaving a strand of hair with a video evidence that it was indeed hers. To the avid Interpol agents who'd been following her tracks for years, that was enough, and the next instance, Mary Morstan, or A.G.R.A., was finally taken into custody. 

When Mycroft saw Mary in the interrogation room through the one-way mirror, she didn't look resentful like he thought she would.

The Interpol agents were riling her up, part in strategy to make her admit more than they could prove with that strand of hair, and part because they were personally antagonistic against this ordinary-looking woman who'd been ruining their lives for so long. And amongst their attempts was the question of how it feels to lose everything just because of a kiss with a twenty year-old, a nobody.

 _All of your work, all of that secrecy, the years of not letting anyone take a single piece of DNA, all bursting into flames just for that single moment of succumbing to your frivolous lust._ They said, across Mary. _Now, that. That's weak. That's laughable. That's pathetic._

Mycroft could watch every corner of Mary's face twist at this, and the face was one of the very few images that he knew for sure that he could never delete from his mind.

She was grinning widely with her eyes glistening under the bright incandescent light. It wasn't a content grin. It was... maniac.

 _You will never understand_. She said. _That wasn't a nobody._

Mycroft broke out of his reminiscing at John's change of posture. He was checking his phone, probably wondering why Mycroft wasn't already there. He didn't receive anything on his phone, though, because John had learned tactfully that Mycroft preferred to initiate contact with John.

What was it about this boy that made the psychopathic assassin slip, only for a kiss? What was it, that made her confident that she'd made the right choice?

John looked so harmless. Small and kind-looking blue eyes. Even his hair was the opposite of aggressiveness - fair, light, blond and airy.

But Mycroft could also see the tension in his shoulders that couldn't be found in twenty year-olds, the flick of his eyes towards possible weaponry whenever he thought he could sense danger, and most of all, the terribly well-hidden sense of ennui, concealed and repressed under the bright ocean-like eyes and wonderfully kind smile. The kind that could be found in those who were bored of life, bored of existing. Those who were dangerous. Those who were...

Mycroft told the driver to continue, and when they approached John, John's face broke into a smile.

Immediately, the tension in his shoulders, the ennui in his eyes, the anxiety that's been riddling under his whole small frame - melted away in the crinkles of the smile, and Mycroft watched it in fascination.

* * *

John was making tea, Irene was on her phone and Bill was watching the telly. It was one of those rare evenings where all three stayed in after dinner.

As he mindlessly let the leaf do its work, his mind took him back to the evening before. Mycroft had called him for a date, as always, and John obliged because he was free. Mycroft always knew when John was free, and although John didn't used to think much into it, Sherlock's comment about Mycroft being the British government along with Sherrinford had made John wonder if Mycroft kept tabs on John's life. Regardless of his doubt, John went out with him and had a nice time as usual. Expensive dinner in a private setting, John talking about his day and Mycroft listening with not too much interest but not without entirely, and going back to Mycroft's place for a shag.

After they both orgasmed, John went into the shower to clean himself up. When he came back, he found Mycroft leaning against the headboard with a particular, inscrutable face.

 _"You're not sleeping,"_ said John, because usually, after sex, Mycroft didn't waste time before cleaning himself up and going straight to bed.

_"Excellent observation, John."_

_"Ha bloody ha."_

John was about to go to sleep himself when Mycroft asked: _"Would you like to spend the Christmas holiday with me, John?"_

"Johnny!"

Irene's voice woke John out of his recollection.

"Can I have a cup of tea?"

"You're right next to the kettle! Pour it out yourself."

"Yes, but I have my hands tied to this phone," said Irene, with a pleading voice. "See? I'm really busy swiping left and right."

She held her screen towards John, on which he could see tinder.

John rolled his eyes and sighed. She did this all the time. It was just tea, though, and he didn't mind too much. He poured two cups of tea, put three sugars in for Irene (he really thought Irene should take less sugar) and a splash of milk for his own.

"Thank you," she purred, looking up at John through her lashes. She was deliberately trying to look pliant and submissive. It worked.

"You're a piece of work," commented John, as he sat down next to her on the kitchen table with his own cup. "I think you should be an actress. You could be someone like, I dunno, Meryl Streep, maybe?"

Irene chuckled. She was back to her commanding self.

"I adore you for getting surprised every time," she said, as she took a sip.

"Perfect. Always trust John Watson to make your tea."

"I hope that doesn't stick." John mumbled into his cup.

Irene was back on tinder, and John continued his brooding.

When John asked Mycroft what he meant, he was met with an even more surprising answer.

_"I would like to invite you to spend Christmas with my family at our family home, if you're amenable."_

The room was dark with only one tableside lamp on, and John could remember watching Mycroft's face while hearing this. Mycroft looked impassive, nonchalant, and perfectly like his usual self. He was observing John's face with the air of can't-be-bothered-ness, with no single sign of vulnerability apparent.

 _"I- I thought you didn't want anything serious with me,"_ was the answer John had chosen. Well, he did not _choose_. It just blurted out of his mouth.

Irene made a frustrated noise next to him, which made John look over.

"Kate's stupid rule is driving me insane." Irene told him. "I can't shag someone matched with her until after she's done with them. Surprise, surprise! We have similar taste, everyone!"

John smirked at this. He's heard this before. "I thought lesbians used some other app."

"Yeah, but I'm through them already."

"Bugs?"

"More like too small of a pool. Kate and I have a very _voracious_ sexual appetite." Irene's voice lowered sensually.

John managed not to choke on his tea.

"I envy people like you." Irene said, dryly. "What is it like, to be satisfied with only one partner? Are you really satisfied, or are you just deceiving yourself?"

"Well... who knows."

Because Irene was not really curious and John knew this, the two of them went back to their own thoughts, quiet absent the noise that came out from the telly that Bill was watching.

 _"I never had the intention to make that the case... permanently,"_ Mycroft had said, carefully choosing his words. _"But I understand if you'd prefer it that way, of course."_

_"No, that's not- no. Well. Um. It's just, it's a surprise?"_

Mycroft nodded. He still looked perfectly impenetrable, and John wondered if he's a jerk for being relieved at Mycroft looking unhurt.

_"Of course. I'll leave you to think about it."_

And that was the end of their conversation; Mycroft turned the light off, bid John goodnight, and went to sleep.

John had thought about it all afternoon, wondering what he should say. He liked Mycroft. He was nice, tall, smart - well, to be exact, insanely smart, he was a proper genius - and though he was controlling and authoritative, John found it hot. It was very sexy when Mycroft made everything right, instantaneously, with only a few words and facial expressions; John had the chance to see this firsthand when his dinner reservation was somehow cancelled. Yes, it was very attractive. John didn't manage to go through a film that night without touching Mycroft.

But spending Christmas break with his family - that was a bit of a jump, John thought, because although the sex was fantastic, he never had the idea of Mycroft wanting anything more than just sex, and so he had adjusted himself to the idea of having a rich, smart sexual partner that took care of everything. 

John had never spent a Christmas with his boyfriend's (or girlfriend's) family. Well, he did meet his first girlfriend's mum at their house, but that was just when they were young. Even younger than now. He didn't know what the gesture meant by then. He still didn't know what it means, exactly, meeting the other's parents. How serious is it, exactly? Does it mean they have to get engaged, or something, in the future? His knowledge about this kind of stuff extended only to the lines from romance TV dramas and movies, which meant nothing actual, nothing real-life. Damn it.

"What are you doing for Christmas?" John questioned.

"Christmas? Oh. Kate and I are having a party at her place." She said with her eyes still fixated on her phone. "What about you?"

"Kate's not going to her parents'?"

"Not this year. They're going up North this year, and Kate hates York."

"Oh. The duck farm?"

"Geese."

John nodded solemnly.

"Are you going to your mum's house?" Irene asked.

"Maybe. Um. That's what I wanted to ask you about. Do you remember Mycroft?"

That made Irene put her phone down. "Why, yes." John ignored her voice going down a key. "Your rich, old man."

"He's twenty-four."

"Mm. Yes. Massively successful at twenty-four. Successful enough to have John Watson at his beck and call."

"Will you just stop?" John asked in feigned annoyance. Irene grinned at him coquettishly.

"Anyways. He asked me to spend the holidays with him and his parents."

"What?" That took Irene out of her playful seductiveness. "I thought you were just fooling around?"

"That's what I thought, too. But I guess he wants something more."

She stared at him, brows furrowed. "And what did you tell him?"

"I told him I had to think on it."

"And have you? Thought about it?"

"Yes, I'm not sure, and hence I'm asking."

Irene tilted her head sideways in pondering.

"What does it even mean?" John asked. "Going to meet the parents at Christmas? People just do that, right?"

"What makes you think I know what it means? I'm really the opposite of what everyone expects."

That was true. "But you know people," said John. "You just know their psychology and stuff. You're like a psychic."

The look Irene sent John was full of pitiful adoration.

"Oh, _John_." She coaxed. "I just know what people like, and- well. I guess you are right. I do know people. They are my expertise."

"Yes, they are. So what is your verdict? Should I say yes?"

She tapped her fingers on the wooden table, pondering. 

"This isn't the problem of what it _means_. You are afraid if you do agree to it, it will be harder for you to break up with him afterwards."

"Well, I- I'm not thinking of breaking up at all, but-"

"But you have been thinking of this thing between you and him as something temporary, haven't you? Something that will end eventually?"

John blinked several times at this. He went over her words in his head, and found out that it was, indeed, true. He's believed that he was fully satisfied with keeping boundaries with Mycroft, but that was only because he thought of it as something casual, something that will break off sooner or later. He has been unconsciously building a barrier for himself not to get hurt once the time comes.

Irene smirked, as if she knew what was going through his head. 

"And now, he's asking for more, and you're afraid that once you say yes and you get into _that_ kind of pool, that either of you will get hurt."

John groaned quietly.

What the "Christmas with the parents" itself meant was pretty important, too, but the real thing was precisely what Irene had just told him. John could see it becoming clearer than anything else once Irene put it like that. He'd go to Musgrave (the last time he was at the place was still vivid in his mind), meet his parents and the whole family. He'll hear stories about Mycroft's childhood (although John couldn't imagine Mycroft as a child, not ever), about the silly little embarrassing details that will make the unassailable Mycroft blush like a teenager. He'll see photo albums and Mycroft's old room and he'll listen to him awkwardly talking about the experiences he'd had in his backyard, about how he'd dirtied himself with dirt and water because he must've been if he really didn't just jump out of her mum's belly already fully-grown. He'd show John the beautiful country sky in the night, and all the stars and the quiet and the fresh air will make John feel helplessly romantic, and he will fall. Fall in love with Mycroft.

Oh, God. He was going to fall in love with Mycroft and he was going to regret it, because he'd never be satisfied with what they had now if he was _in love_ with the man.

"I will be the one who'll get hurt," said John. "He's going to be fine. He's all controlled and immaculate."

"You don't know that."

"I do. But that's not the important thing, isn't it? I guess I should just say no."

Irene made a disagreeing sound.

"What? I thought that's what you expected?" John asked in confusion.

"No, because I know what _you_ like too." Irene said, poking John in the chest. "You don't run away in these situations. Now that you know exactly what's going on, you wouldn't be able to bear not even trying. All that Christmas stuff you've just imagined, all those sentimental moments that just flashed through your minds- you know it's playing with fire, doing all that with someone who you're not already in love with, but you want to try it, still, now that the option's in your hand."

John opened his mouth, closed it back.

Irene chuckled. "Oh, John. You don't run away from danger. You run towards it. When will you learn that about yourself?"

After a beat of silence with John just staring at the little piece of pattern carved in their faux-wooden table, he sighed.

"I changed my mind. You shouldn't be an actress. You should be a therapist."

She crossed her legs and picked back up her phone. "Too boring. Sex therapist, maybe."

John thought she'd be just perfect for the job, and told her so. She thanked him with a kiss on his cheek.

* * *

Sherlock's long leave was over, and he was back in his father's car to Eton. Except for the "talk" his mother has given him after the incident at London ( _most of which Sherlock had successfully put on mute_ ), his leave has been satisfactory. He'd solved a serial murder, for one. The credit was going to Lestrade, but Sherlock couldn't care less about that. Because the case has been such hot topic for the public, Lestrade solving the case immediately put him on the express train to his promotion, which allowed Sherlock to grill a promise out of the DI that he will consult him with further cases ( _only the interesting ones_ , Sherlock had emphasized, _because otherwise my brain rots_ ). 

He'd also discovered sexual attraction, apparently. But he'd decided to ignore that steadfastly for now. 

His parents were talking in the front seats, banal everyday chatter that Sherlock was happy to let it flow over his head.

"... and you, darling. Try to get a present for Mycroft this year." His mother turned back in her seat to look at Sherlock, all of a sudden.

Sherlock scowled. "What? Why would I ever do _that_?"

"Because his date is coming with him this Christmas and we don't want your brother to be embarrassed in front of him," answered his father. 

His date?

John?

"John?" Sherlock muttered, impulsively.

"Yes, his name's John. How did you know that?" His mother said, surprised.

"-obvious, boring," he managed to say.

Violet rolled her eyes.

"Whatever witchcraft you boys do. Anyways, he's going to be here for two whole weeks, and it's obviously a big deal for Mycroft, so you'd better behave, Sherlock."

He hummed noncommittally and glanced outside his window instead of agreeing. At this perfectly usual set of behavior, his mother turned her body back towards her front and chatted on.

"... nice young man, finally we get to meet him. Martha's staying with us, so she'll help us with the turkey. Oh, we have to get the tree. Do the Mcclarggens still sell their blue spruce? ..."

Sherlock put her back on mute.

Two whole weeks of John, in Musgrave, where his whole life has ever been.

He had no idea what it was that went shuddering through his body as he watched his own reflection at the window.


End file.
